


Downtown Donghyuck

by damnneovelvet



Series: those of the losers' party [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Neo City, Demisexuality, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, Non-Linear Narrative, Organized Crime, Psychological Warfare, Sexual Content, Slow Build, Strangers to Lovers, Unreliable Narrator, theme: jazz noir but with neon lights
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 93,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23426170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnneovelvet/pseuds/damnneovelvet
Summary: If Donghyuck’s camera wasn’t his very baby -- the sole reason he survived on ramen for two whole months -- he would have let it hit the road when he ran. In his defence, when you’re running for your life, you don’t usually care about simple things. It’s the expensive stuff that really counts.—In which a visit to Neo City means dipping your toes into a life of crime and falling in love while going through an existential crisis.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Mark Lee, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: those of the losers' party [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174190
Comments: 57
Kudos: 70





	1. (一) let me forget my umbrella, let me under the rain

**Author's Note:**

> first things first:
> 
> \- I'm grateful you've chosen to read this, and I hope you'll enjoy. It's a simple work with nothing to pry apart and it's my current passion project :D so I'm doubly happy if you accompany me on this journey;
> 
> \- I chose this font because this fic wasn't meant to be read by many people while it's ongoing. If you wish, you can always click on the 'hide creator's style' button. I'll turn this back to verdana when this fic is over;
> 
> \- this is mh slapped onto one of my dead works, though it has changed quite a bit; 
> 
> \- be gay but don't do crime;
> 
> \- this is complete fiction. I neither think of the idols this way nor am I implying anything. 
> 
> //
> 
> tw: please don't read if you have any recognised triggers. there won't be any heavy angst here, but it does deal with dark themes. content warnings are placed at the beginning of every chapter.
> 
> //
> 
> [pinterest board for visuals](https://pin.it/2EAZAju)
> 
> Key:  
> 昔: past  
> 今: present
> 
> cw for ch-1: mild anxiety, mentioned blood, impulsive decisions.

今

  
  


If Donghyuck's camera wasn't his very baby -- the sole reason he survived on ramen for two whole months -- he would have let it hit the road when he ran. In his defence, when you're running for your life, you rarely care about simple things. It's the expensive stuff that counts. 

If you want to leave behind evidence, then leave a fingerprint, not the shattered lens of a fucking 45.7 MP DSLR. Either will land you dead, or worse -- in jail. Chances are (and chances are treacherous things, slippery like water snakes) if you survive, you'll regret one less thing. Assuming a fake identity and becoming the president of a new country costs less than a professional camera in this decade. 

He runs with all he has. One sharp turn. Then the edge of another building. The roughness of uneven plaster scrapes his palm as he nearly slips on the wet streets. He pants as he tries to get away as fast as possible, one hand clutching his camera and the other -- he can't quite figure what he's doing with it. This can't do. Although Donghyuck is prepared to take his bills to the grave as laminated reminders of why he wouldn't die a billionaire, he's not ready to receive a headstone yet. Which is why he ran in the first place. 

The last time he ran this hard was when he was six. Scared of the monster under his bed, he had slipped, jammed his knee against the dining table and scarred it forever.

Nobody warned him that the monster under his bed had a shock of pink hair, narrowed eyes, crimson splattered across his clothes and a grin that stretched from ear to ear. He knows now, and he fears. He fears the worn soles of his trainers skidding over wet asphalt. Fears the neon orange of his hoodie alerting his predator in the dark. Fears he will die an undocumented death in a strange city at the hands of a slick maniac. 

There's a different melancholy attached to the tag of ‘John Doe' in hospitals. Imagine death in its most intense form -- the sting of antiseptic, stitches trying to hold together wounds that no longer bleed, a white sheet pulled over a motionless head. And nobody claims the body. Nobody, because they've lost all ways to figure out who passed away. With a lost identity, the only plausible fate is being thrown into a freezer and then sold off to whoever needs corpses. 

Donghyuck doesn't want to die in some place his mother can never find him. He wants to get buried (or cremated, he's not picky) and rest where his grandmother rests.

He feels wetness on his cheeks: part sweat, part tears. He wipes at them, a slight tremor in his hand. 

The streets are endless.

They seem to stretch with twists and turns, where he swears he saw only smooth walls just an hour ago. He stops, sharp air burning his chest. There's only so much he can do when he doesn't know where he is or how he ended up there. 

One second he'd been taking pictures of a glossy moon, the next, he has a murder captured in his physical memories.

He leans against a corner, pulling out his phone.

Dead.

He turns it around in his hand, catching his breath and constantly looking left and right. For such a busy city, there is no one around, only painfully dark shadows and the ghosts of rumbling engines somewhere far, far away.

In the distance, he hears something clink.

Donghyuck runs, if not for his life, for that at least, his body needs to be found.

  
  


今

  
  


Public bus seats are uncomfortable. The metal frame digs into Donghyuck's thighs as he settles into the first empty seat he spots. He is still panting and sweat plasters his bangs to his forehead. It feels like he's been running for hours, where truthfully it must have been about ten minutes. He rubs a sleeve over his face, unsure of what's happening.

Backtrack, backtrack, he murmurs. 

He climbed onto a bus. Reached a place with people. Golden streetlights. Ran. He took a picture. A few pictures. Isolated alleyway. 

Pink hair.

Donghyuck rubs his thumb over the screen of his camera, leaving smudged fingerprints over the display. It has run out of battery (if it's a good thing or bad; he doesn't know). He heaves out a deep sigh, almost painful in its intensity when coupled with the exhaustion that has begun to set in his body.

His lungs still burn and his throat is drier than the Sahara desert. There are stitches in his sides (cramps, Hyuck, you call them cramps) and all he wants is to break into half, to be cleaved apart right where his abdomen begins. His spine is tingling _\-- fucking tingling --_ with the effort to keep his posture upright. If he has to run anymore, he'll be able to hear his bones creak. Legs, right, legs exist and Donghyuck only thinks of them when needle-like pricking shoots up through his ankles. He hadn't even realised they had gone numb. His face twists in discomfort as sensation floods back to his feet. 

"Are you alright?" a small voice asks. It's coming from his right -- there's the aisle, and then another empty seat -- no, from his left, and he finds himself looking at big, round eyes. Dark, big, round eyes with glitter stuck on high cheekbones. Actual pieces of big tangible glitter too, blue and pink. Donghyuck wants to brush them off with a callous swipe of his thumb, uncaring if it would hurt the soft-looking skin they're sitting on.

"Excuse me, are you alright?" the man asks again.

A nimble hand waves in front of Donghyuck's eyes. 

"Yeah, yeah, I'm okay, thanks." Hell no, Lee Donghyuck is not okay, he's about to be shot in the middle of his cute forehead by snipers hiding on tall, endless skyscrapers. He can already imagine the bright red dot -- 

"Are you sure? You don't look like it. You look like...old parchment paper," the man continues, with his eyebrows furrowing as wispy, golden hair falls over his eyes. 

Donghyuck doesn't want to die in a goddamned public bus. Not in front of a cute boy whose name he'll never know. A cute boy who is comparing him to old parchme -- what.

"...Old parchment paper?"

"Oh no. Are you a glossy paper guy?" he asks with a small gasp, "Textured paper is superior though." Glitter guy looks away, outside the window, where the night speeds past and golden lights blur into orange ( _as they leave the crime scene behind,_ Donghyuck's brain supplies). More people trickle into view as the bus takes a sharp turn.

"Isn't paper best when it's smooth?" Donghyuck tries, his throat scratchy. 

"Less ink absorption," the other shrugs, "Also, you look like you've run a mile. Are you one of those new camera enthusiasts, the ones that only take pictures while running?"

Donghyuck blinks. "What?" 

His leg bounces, adrenaline coursing through his blood, fucking up what's left of his heart. When he crashes, he probably won't wake up for days. If he is fortunate, someone will think of sending him back to his mother's house. This would be a threat on an _ordinary_ day, but nothing has qualified for that label in his life for years anyway. He's doomed. He will spend the rest of his life digging a burrow for himself.

"There's this thing I read in the papers, I assumed you were one of those ‘photography freaks' they keep writing about." A sparkling, black nail points towards the strap around Donghyuck's neck. More glitter. This day keeps getting better.

"No, no I'm not."

Glitter guy shuffles in his seat, the breeze playing with his unruly hair. 

"Cool, not like I'd judge if you were. I've actually met some of those east of the Downtown marketplace. It's an amazing place, truly. You could create blue watermelons and no one would bat an eye."

Taller buildings are already in view. 

Donghyuck feels safer than before, but you're only as safe as how well you manage to hide. 

"Really?" He asks, trying to keep up with the stranger. Any information is good information when your brain is freaking out and emptying by the second. All his neurons probably fell out when he chose to sit next to a person when there were tons of empty seats. Glitter guy opens his mouth to speak. Donghyuck wonders what kind of nonsense he has stored in his head for him to prattle off as if this were a usual conversation.

"I mean, it depends...Could you actually make a blue watermelon? If you did, you'd land up in a science lab, as some test subject, before even getting the chance to gloat you're changing nature's colours..."

Donghyuck swallows, eyes narrowing at this weird person sitting next to him. 

"Sure...test subject...hey, are _you_ okay? You look pale."

The guy doesn't even bother to turn back to look at him, only hums in acknowledgement but the sound gets drowned by a honking vehicle.

"Just high on oxygen."

Donghyuck lets out a choked laugh then faces a sudden realisation. 

Maybe the oxygen in Neo City really is different. You never know, it could be one of those wild isotopes that causes everyone to hallucinate. Donghyuck desperately wants everything from the past hour to be a big fucking hallucination, a visualisation of whatever balance his brain has lost. Something like a dream he needs to wake up from, or just haunting VFX from some ‘60s horror movie. But in real life.

(Or perhaps it's just a small joke meant to diffuse the tension.) 

"I'm just kidding, I'm not high. Look at your face," he giggles, finally turning towards Donghyuck and giving him a small, shrewd smile.

Donghyuck pulls his face into what he feels can pass as a...happy lip-curve. Yeah. Very creative. He feels like a gnome and he probably looks like shit when he can't smile. All he wants to do is run away, to go back home (debatable), but here he is, talking to a potential criminal (because who the fuck talks about blue watermelons, is this man all right?). He is counting down seconds as if the harbinger of his last breath is just round the corner, waiting to board the bus.

"You look better now. You look like you're thinking. And thinking is good, in moderation." Glitter guy says. His shoulders slump and he folds his arms, which hides his sparkly nails from view.

Donghyuck just wants to leave. He is certain now. Why does this bus never stop? Does he want it to stop? He takes a glance at his wristwatch -- it's sometime after midnight.

"Yeah, I just...need to get back to my hotel fast --"

"Why are you visiting? Business?"

That's when Donghyuck realises that Glitter guy is going to keep talking. He's pretty, all right, Donghyuck gives him that, with the make-up and soft, navy blue sweater. But he's also a storm who hasn't shut up since Donghyuck sat next to him fifteen minutes ago -- the boy (man?) definitely doesn't have many people to talk to everyday. At this moment, Donghyuck can't muster the energy to do anything other than going with the flow. 

Maybe he's grateful because whenever it falls silent, he remembers crimson on a shirt that had flashed white for the barest second, which cascades into a movie of grisly memories. The lady sitting behind them starts hiccuping. Donghyuck lets out a shuddering breath. He clears his throat and wraps the strap of his camera around a finger. 

"Just some freelance work for a friend...What about you, do you live here?"

"That's not information I'm willing to share," he says, happily monotonous and freaking _difficult_ to understand, "especially with a stranger. Ask me a different question." 

Donghyuck isn't grateful anymore. 

Not at all. 

"Are you always like this?"

"Talking to strangers on a bus? Not really, no. I'm a little tipsy? And you just look really worked up, as if you were running for your life --"

A strong pulse reaches the tips of Donghyuck's fingers. This man is onto something and Donghyuck doesn't know if he can handle it. There's a deep pit in his stomach that is continuously filling with acid; his parietal cells are working hard to end him. A burst of dulled pink passes by across the street. The bus finally ( _thank god, fucking finally_ ) stops and Donghyuck jumps up, almost falling over his feet.

"Oh, this is me. Bye, Glitter guy!" he declares -- rather blandly, even though he was going for a well-composed dramaticism -- then rushes past and almost knocks into the hiccuping lady who is also headed to the now-open door.

His feet hit the moist pavement after a few long strides. 

With the bus left behind and the lady throwing him a weird look before scurrying towards an alleyway, Donghyuck is off to find his way.

Bars and clubs line the street. The crowds outside are either smoking or laughing -- shrill and uncaring, almost as if all is fine in the world and none of them is going to live to see another sunrise. A door opens and shuts somewhere. Loud. He still breathes heavy, his camera a dead weight on his neck and his phone silent in his pocket. He doesn't want to think. Not even in moderation. At this moment, there's no one but him and the distant light from a flashlight that disappears whenever the orange street lights flicker to life.

There aren't enough people out for him to blend and vanish within. There is nowhere to hide.

He closes his eyes against his will and stands in one place, listening to the sounds around him carefully. Then, he decides drag his feet along, staring at the cracks running along the old, brick pavement. 

His second fucking night in a new city across the globe (he wants to hug his mom) and he doesn't know if he'll make it alive out of here. He doesn't know what to do, where to go, he doesn't fucking know anybo -- 

A hand lands on his shoulder and he shrieks. 

Donghyuck screams bloody murder and almost jumps out of his human skinsuit as he finds his knees hitting the ground and his arms flail to cover his head. The hand reaches out to gently wrap around his wrist. The edge of his camera digs into his stomach and he is once again forced to remember why he's in this precarious position.

"This is why I was talking to you in the first place. And Glitter guy? Really?"

  
  


昔

  
  


Essentially, things had been set into motion way before Donghyuck could even dream of anything happening to shake his routine. In typical life fashion, Donghyuck is fucked before he knows what the word even means.

*

Sunsets are prettier in Africa, Donghyuck surmises as he stays perched on top of a massive boulder, angling to capture the light as best as possible. 

It's their last day in the eastern region, as part of a 'We Care For Nature' volunteer campaign, and it's the perfect chance to go out for one of their famed safaris. They say you can see lions if you're lucky and Donghyuck, being the closeted daredevil he is, wanted to test his luck.

The tour group only managed to spot a sleeping lioness from their jeep, and that was the highlight of his day until the safari ended and he found himself awed by a twinkling vermillion and purple sky. This was better than seeing the equator (just water swirling in different directions in weirdly designed sinks across a broad, painted white line). A novel view in the same old world. 

Donghyuck sighs. He should try reading poetry. Maybe then he will have actual pretty lines to quote as he swoons over true beauty.

"Hey! Hyuck! Come here, we're taking a group picture!" Jungwoo shouts out, waving their banner enthusiastically. 

He runs to them, looking at the screen, satisfied with his shot. It's a semi-silhouette. He's pleased. However, as soon as the group pictures are over and he's done shaking hands with all the new people he's met this week, he feels...sad. 

Donghyuck likes this.

This being travelling and preserving memories of moments that will never return. 

(Truth be told, there are more pictures of his group mates on roll than the list of items he needed for a magazine back home. He's never done wildlife photography extensively before, with his speciality of focusing on human body-lines, And he's never done hearty companionship this way either. At least, not in a while.)

It reminds him of the days when he was carefree. 

Days like high school field trips where getting drunk shy of a teacher's knowledge is a norm. College tours taking students to exquisite places far from lecture halls, spilling love and lust into the wild. Like a long-awaited vacation after graduation that makes for a story worth telling every time someone new stumbles by.

The world tips over on its axis the moment you leave the whole 'getting educated' gimmick. You think the stress of cramming a semester worth of knowledge one night before the finals would teach you how to deal with shit. It doesn't. Not really. 

Maybe this is as good as it gets, he thinks to himself, posing with victory signs.

The glum of parting away most certainly shows on his face as they start gathering their things and queue into the bus that takes them back to the hotel.

Donghyuck showers quickly then he wears fresh clothes and checks if he has packed everything, then shoves his folding umbrella into the side pocket of his rucksack. There's a knock at the door as he pulls on his shoes asking him to hurry downstairs. They're headed to the airport in ten minutes. 

As he prepares to leave and promptly pulls along his suitcase, Jungwoo bounds up, wrapped in a short denim jacket. He has a kind smile on his face and a hand outstretched, waiting for Donghyuck. They exchange pleasantries, exhaustion tugging down their bones. There's a different kind of grimness set in Jungwoo's face and he assumes it's got to do with something personal.

"Hyuck, I'm so glad I met you this time. You're a very talented photographer, really, not just saying that because we owe you one. You're just really good at capturing emotion, and people in general."

Donghyuck laughs on the surface; suspicion takes a grip inside.

"Thank you. I'm sorry too, it must have been difficult with a last-minute replacement but you guys took care of me so well."

"It doesn't matter really. The previous guy was nice, but old man Jiji is going senile. The last time WCFN called him to their campaign, he caused a mess and even ended up smashing a vase in front of an orphanage director. Don't tell anyone I told you that, okay? You're much, much saner," Jungwoo laughs, his face breaking into a big smile with practised ease. 

Donghyuck chuckles along. His heart stutters at the sudden happiness that takes over Jungwoo. 

"I'll take that compliment," he replies, fiddling with the hem of his long sleeves.

"Which is why I have a last-minute request? Will you consider it?"

*

What he asks for is very simple. Through their ride to the airport, Donghyuck listens to Jungwoo's retelling of how he got engaged this spring. It's a cute story, and there is a fair share of dramatic moments as well. The man literally lights up when he shows off the slim, gold band that hangs off a chain on his neck.

He asks if Donghyuck is interested in wedding photography. 

It's not something he hasn't tried before. It just isn't his scene. 

Wedding photography is a whole complex thing of its own. Lots of fashion shoots, some documentary-like shoots, staying on your toes for every capturable moment for more than just the duration of the wedding and then weeks of editing to make the pictures worth hanging on the walls. And these pictures stay for decades, unless, of course, divorces or separations occur. Tough luck. Not to mention how some people have weird ideas and demands of their own.

Jungwoo assures him it's going to be a simple affair, not long either, and that he's going to hand over creative freedom to Donghyuck if he accepts.

What manages to catch him off guard is the location.

"You're going to invite me to Neo City? Just for this?" Donghyuck sits up straight.

"Sure, why not? I've always wanted to get married at the church near home. My brother's already spoken to the pastor about it."

The nonchalance Jungwoo holds in his body is too comfortable to be real. His eyes don't shake the way Donghyuck's do, his fingers drum a slow beat on his knees, unhurried, unbothered. 

"Isn't it..." There's a humming in his ears, disbelief bleeding through his tone, "Difficult to get a visa for that place?"

"You know how Neo City customs have strict rules? They relax those for residents and if a resident vouches for you -- if I vouch for you -- I will be held accountable for anything questionable. You commit a crime, you're imprisoned, but so am I. It's a simple system. If I get you contracted as a photographer, you will easily get a temporary work visa there." 

Jungwoo stops for a second, stares through Donghyuck, then says, "What do you think about it?"

Neo City is a city of dreams. It's a city of hope that has survived major crises all on its own. Globalization is important, he remembers their mayor giving a speech, but localisation and globalization together are what makes us, well, us. He doesn't remember the mayor's face -- or name -- but he vaguely remembers it was a young fellow.

It is someplace everyone wants to see, a favourite on ‘top 10 mysterious destinations you need to visit' and a powerful commercial capital with about a hundred legal accusations hanging threatless over their heads. People would flock to the city for tourism if it weren't for strict travel restrictions. Donghyuck is no exception to the charm of a forbidden place. 

"We met barely a month ago, are you sure --"

"If I wasn't, do you think I would have asked? It sounds spoilt, even privileged, but I'll do anything to have you and your camera at my wedding. Most people get a fancy wedding only once. I want it to be one of those."

At that moment Donghyuck says he'll think about it. Seriously.

He also learns that Jungwoo is pretty loaded when he offers to pay for all travelling costs and accommodation (okay, pretty might be a severe understatement, he's the only legitimate son of an infamous footballer). 

Wow.

*

Two days later, it takes a rushed video call to his mother (how dare you not call me the moment you landed), voicing his reservations against going to Neo City all by himself (as if you don't live away from home by yourself, you wimp) and being bullied into accepting that this is an opportunity to spice up his life! (maybe meet a nice boy at the wedding and bring me some good news son???)

"You just want me to settle down."

"So what if I do?" His mother's mechanically distorted voice echoes in his empty living room.

"Mom, we have talked about this --"

"And what? You are already so old --"

Donghyuck pouts, "I'm only 26!"

It doesn't seem to affect his mother's opinion anyway. "-- do you think anyone will marry you if you become an old man who talks to his walls?"

"I do not talk to walls --"

"I saw what I saw, kid, I don't need you telling me otherwise --"

Tired, shivering on his couch under a Winnie-the-Pooh blanket, he types out a mail that same night, unaware that ‘spicing up' his life may involve a very different kind of spice than he was led to imagine.

  
  


今

  
  


"So," Glitter guy starts, a glass of whiskey in one hand and his chin propped on the other, "I'm Mark. You can stop with the Glitter guy stuff."

Mark. He doesn't quite strike Donghyuck as a Mark, all with the 'look at me, I'm prettier than your dreams' get-up and oddly sharp tongue. Then again, never judge a book by its cover and never judge a person by their name, even if you've been calling them by an awkward moniker and their real name is picked right off the pages of the Bible.

"Donghyuck," he introduces himself, fingers circling the rim of his glass.

They're sitting at the counter of a small 24/7 bar. The bartender is busy wiping glasses a few metres away and with the little number of people left inside, he can hear coffeehouse jazz flowing through the speakers placed in the corners. More glasses clink around him, and it's fairly soothing to know that people have the gall to carry on with their lives no matter what happens right now.

Once Donghyuck was done screaming on the streets and attracting unwanted attention, he had been pulled onto his feet and dragged into an alleyway. There, Mark pushed open a door, and they fell inside.

"Donghyuck...I'm not gonna ask why you're basically dying --"

"Thanks for that, I guess."

"-- But you're really tense, and if you want to run from something, being tense won't cut it."

"How do you know?"

Mark raises an eyebrow and Donghyuck clears his throat, "How do you know I'm running from...something?"

They down their drinks at the same time, heads tipped back, throats burning.

"There are no hotels in a 20-kilometre radius from this place. You said this was your hotel stop. I don't think I need to explain."

Donghyuck nods (he dug his own grave) then turns his head side to side, trying to loosen up the knots in his neck. He's done messing up. 

Tears pool at the corners of his eyes but don't fall.

New drinks appear in front of them. Blood red, but it isn't wine. There's a fruity smell in the air but he can't quite place it amongst the overpowering scent of alcohol. Exactly what is he drinking? It tastes shit.

Mark taps his forearm, drawing attention.

"Cranberry."

"Did I..." Donghyuck sighs, "I didn't mean to say that aloud."

Mark laughs and it's full-throated but lovely. His nose scrunches and eyes fall closed. A raucous sound steeped in joy. Donghyuck wants to feel joy too.

"You didn't, but your expression says it all. You wear your heart on your sleeve, did you know that?" There is a teasing lilt to his voice. Raising his glass, he sends Donghyuck a tiny smile.

He wears his heart on his sleeve and that is exactly why it's too worn to be used. But he doesn't say that. He smiles back and takes a sip. It's weird. It leaves his tongue numb in the thickness of the flavour. He pushes the glass away and Mark smirks, stealing his glass promptly. Donghyuck doesn't have the capacity to dissect what just happened, and he decides that as long as Mark remains in front of his eyes tonight, he'll remain in denial. He can face the other four (or is it five?) stages tomorrow.

They drink in silence for a while. A comfortable peace that he hasn't felt in ages. The past few hours of his life were a trainwreck. He's complicit in a crime he never wanted to witness. He can neither put Jungwoo in danger by going to the police nor can he wait to be tracked down and become the next victim of that knife.

The drinks keep changing, with Mark ordering multiples of whatever he takes a fancy to and occasionally asking Donghyuck if he's allergic to certain ingredients. 

About an hour goes by. Warmth rushes to gather at Donghyuck's temples. Mark is already a giggling mess, hiding his face behind his hands and humming to the music in a broken voice, a few notes here, a few notes there. His cheeks are flushed a pretty pink and a lot of the glitter chunks have fallen off. 

"What's up with all the...Uh...Shimmery stuff?" 

Mark doubles over in laughter and Donghyuck can't help but follow, even though he doesn't know what was so funny about his question. His abdomen hurts, his lungs don't have air and his ears ring but he's happy. He hasn't been this... _free_ in who knows how long. 

_So what if I'm going to end up dead, I'll die laughing._

"It's, it was for this pride charity thing I went to earlier...Horrible really, not a single person wanted to be there, and! And the person hosting it? He was a fucking glossy paper guy, all the invitations and menus were so shiny, no wonder. Also not queer-friendly at all. A bigot." Mark squeaks the last words out, then pauses for a second before breaking down into light chuckles again. A flailing hand lands upon Donghyuck's thigh and it's a welcome touch.

"...Glossy paper huh...I'm a parchment guy too, y'know, but I didn't like that you called me old, I'm not even 30 yet." Donghyuck says, the words tumbling out before he can taste them.

"Haha...I'm not 30 yet too. So I'm very young. Does that make sense?"

"What would you be if you were 30, then?"

"Just young." Mark winks -- or tries to, and fails. Then he breaks into giggles and leans into Donghyuck's space.

They drink again, pungent alcohol washing down all coherence down the drain. 

All of a sudden, the hand on Donghyuck's thigh squeezes, then trails up, leaving him shivering. Mark leans in closer and his warm breath is all Donghyuck can feel and hear. Then Mark speaks in a low, grumbling voice.

"Also, Donghyuck, don't trust strangers so much...Stranger danger, okay? Stranger danger."

  
  


昔

  
  


Even rain hits Neo City differently. 

Lee Donghyuck stands fixing his beanie by the taxi pick-up point, with a suitcase behind him and his phone in hand. The app shows a horribly pixelated yellow taxi making its way towards him with a bubble floating over it that says 3 minutes. He clicks his phone off, then stares out into the street. It's not cold but it isn't hot either. The weather report says it's been drizzling for a month already. He doesn't know if he was being optimistic when he packed, or stupid. 

He has never forgotten an umbrella before. 

It's a given in Jeju that there may be light showers at any time of the day, given their geography -- an island surrounded by a particularly frolicking sea. A dynamic entity, always so soothing yet unpredictable. But that wasn't why he always had an umbrella by his side. 

The first time he'd ever liked a boy (when he was 5, sweet and innocent, untouched by political propaganda), he'd kissed him under the rain (because that's what mum and dad did, and those people in the movies did, it was wet but it's what he was supposed to do, wasn't he?). He had been shoved away, and he found his little heart shattering as he fell into a puddle and became a mess. When he came home crying, his mother patched him up and handed him his first umbrella. _It will protect you, baby,_ she had said.

Needless to say, little Hyuckie had severe trust issues from then on. He always had his personal hello kitty-patterned saviour in the water bottle pocket of his school bag. When the bullies first came to tease him, Donghyuck found immense joy in bashing their shins and throwing punches in their faces.

His tools of 'utter outrage' were confiscated regularly, but that only lasted until middle school began in earnest and he said goodbye to his frustrated elementary school principal. 

The rain was common in Jeju after all.

 _It's a form of dependence,_ his counsellor told him when he still had the funds to pay one without worrying. "You want something to protect you, and instead of something metaphorical, you've picked a physical, easily accessible, and rather dangerous, object. You know it could look like you have serious aggression issues, but that's not the case. You know that right?"

It's not an aggression issue. If it was, wouldn't his exes bodies be floating face-down in the Han River instead of clubbing on Instagram stories?

So dependence it is. 

He has good memories too, but nobody ever bothers to ask him about those.

His taxi arrives, a sleek white affair with bright yellow stickers on the doors. 

_Not a new year, but new me I guess,_ he mumbles, before relaying the address of his hotel. All those years of learning English manage to pay off once again.

*

As he's shown to his room in a nice three-star hotel in a rather smug area ("Zone street, we've got a lot of small shopping centres here, perfect for first-time travellers!"), he keeps a small smile on his face. The short bellboy has done nothing to offend him, except for being too cheery. 

The door opens and he finds a very normal room, nothing particularly impressive but not bad. He drops his beanie onto the bed, sets his suitcase beside the work desk and mutters a final thank you as the door closes softly behind him.

Donghyuck immediately goes to stand by the open window, where a thin curtain billows with the light breeze.

Lee Donghyuck's first exposure to a big city was when he finally shifted to the center of Seoul for job hunting after years of loitering in the outskirts as a rogue university student. He's seen it all. Buildings that touch the clouds, glass exteriors, and marble interiors. Massive pixels of news banners moving above doors and pedestrians crowding the streets as if they're the only species with a right to exist. He's seen it all -- or so he believes. 

Neo City resembles an endless maze of light contrasting with deep rivulets running through, like a web. In the far distance stands a cluster of towers, each taller than the next, with neon lights reflecting off their sheens of rainwater. The sky is heavy, hanging over them as if it could fall any instant.

It's just...different.

Donghyuck takes a deep breath then looks below. The air smells sharper. It's charged with energy from the bustling masses; it's a zest he's familiar with.

A section of the busy street is visible. A lady struts confidently in a red, sequined dress; a man runs after her in high-heeled boots. There's a few kids in brown trench coats near the street lamp with loud hand gestures and flapping mouths. A blond head bobs to music that doesn't reach Donghyuck's ears. A light turns red somewhere and the haze settles further as mismatched cars start lining up.

It's a little fiery, a little wet. He can smell the ozone, the geosmin and metal -- hard, frigid metal. The mocking earthy smell rolls around on his tongue like the remnants of a chewed-up leaf. It's light but heavy, like bells that don't chime correct when you sound them. Donghyuck takes another deep breath, closing his eyes.

He smiles. 

He wants to book the first ticket back home.

  
  


昔

  
  


Mark Minhyung Lee, fresh off his long-awaited 27th celebration of being alive, stops and questions his existence for a moment longer than necessary. He often tends to forget he's more than a speck of dust with the hectic lifestyle he has adapted to.

Jungwoo's shrill laughter and swirling cranberry juice seem to taunt him, even when he knows that they aren't trying to make him feel awful. Jungwoo can, but the cranberry won't. He's one of the few people who actually like it; it won't stab it's only willing patron in the back.

"What, so your date left because you made him talk about different pasta shapes? Was he a ravioli type of person?" Jungwoo laughs again, slapping a hand on the wooden surface. The poor table has taken a lot of damage already, with so many people abusing it day in and day out. Mark is certain that the darker gashes on one end are burn marks. Poor table.

A waitress weaves her way past the tables, smiling with appetizers in hand. Fried chicken strips. How very Jungwoo.

"Yes, and no. I was kinda pissed he thought there are only 5 shapes of pasta. And he didn't like spaghetti. That's an immediate negative for me."

"Mark, babe, never date someone with a different pasta choice."

"Or what? Do you get married? Like you and --"

The other shushes him, grinning like a fool and picking a strip of chicken. He looks happier. Much happier than Mark has ever seen him and it's all thanks to the proposal. He is proud and excited, but somewhere inside, he also dreads the wedding. Very few married couples have been close to him, and neither of them have made it out unscathed.

In another corner of his heart, envy slithers like a scorned animal. Jungwoo -- sweet, sweet Jungwoo -- who has never sought out love the way Mark has. Jungwoo, who spent most of his life travelling, helping people across the world, never being home when he's sorely needed but doing things for the unknown greater good. Maybe Karma really does exist, for Jungwoo has finally found his own salvation while trying to bring heaven to others. Good for him. Lonely for Mark.

"I'm not married yet, but I will be, and no, we have the same pasta choices. Gotta love that."

"Mhm, we're completely forgetting the point here, aren't we?"

"That your date failed? Again? Listen, he wasn't that ba --"

"I don't wanna know." Because he already knows. He needs to move forward. He must get a life for real, something outside the memories of a disbanded orchestra and the postered walls of his bedroom. He's 27 for Christ's sake, he knows he has to advance. The question is, how?

The men he's seen haven't been bad per se. Jungwoo is right, they're decent and very ordinary. That's all Mark's ever asked for, a decent and ordinary boyfriend with whom he can live a fairly normal life, and yet, neither of the men made it past a maximum of two dates.

And it's not their fault. Mark drives them away.

"All right. I'll stop setting you up on blind dates. Cool? Just...find some new friends? I'm not always around --"

"I know, Woo."

"-- And there's only so much you can talk about with your nephew."

Mark bristles. His nephew is his favourite person and they talk about meaningful things. Like which Pokémon's evolutionary forms are better and which weren't required. Or how big is the biggest lake on Earth? 

"I have friends, people from the old orchestra, the studio staff..."

"Those are called 'work friends' -- or in human terms, your fucking colleagues, Mark. Whenever you sit with them, all you talk about is work and technical shit. Anybody you work with? Not a casual friend. Those are the kind that will stab you in the back later."

Mark glares at him, taking in the soft cut of his hair. He's going to miss Jungwoo -- it's a case of chronic _missing,_ he is always missing his best friend because Jungwoo is rarely around for longer than a few weeks.

He is still missing him even when his hand is around Jungwoo's shoulders. 

"No, really, Mark, when was the last time you talked to Jaehyun for more than a minute? Or even Taeil? What about Jaemin -- didn't you guys get along?" Jungwoo's voice trails off at the end, seeing the obvious disinterest on Mark's face. He tugs at his arm gently to bring him back to the flow of conversation. 

"I get your point. Let's talk about something else?" Mark pleads, pulling the plate towards himself.

"You know the cute guy I asked to come photograph for me -- the one I met in Africa -- arrived today. I was thinking of going to see him tomorrow, but I can't because of a team meeting."

Mark knows where this is headed. Go meet a nice boy, talk to him and take the fall. This is how he gets set up on blind dates. No, he isn't falling for this. Not again.

"Woo, I'm attending a charity dinner tomorrow. It's already on someone else's behalf. I'm sorry? And don't try to set me up with someone you've asked to work for you."

Jungwoo pouts but lets it go.

"Mark, have you ever tried...I don't know...hitting it off with a stranger?"

"Are you insane?"

"It's a common thing to do. I get that you were busy in uni, but there's time now. You're not committed to anyone either. Bring someone home? No one's going to judge you for it."

Mark slaps Jungwoo's arm and pulls away. He raises his hand to flag down a waitress.

"This discussion is over and you're paying for dinner. For traumatising me."

He needs to come up with new excuses fast. His busy work life and family weekends aren't enough to convince anyone (heck, he can't fucking convince himself) that he's leading the fulfilling life he wants. It's very debatable how much of that is real and how much is an exaggeration.

His friend is just being caring, he knows, but knowing isn't enough because he can't feel it within himself to act on anything the other says.

Plus, what are the odds? He might have a chance encounter tomorrow night. He might run into the cute photographer boy before he comes back home from dinner. 

After all, Neo City is a relatively small place (whenever it wants to be).

*

Mark Lee also tends to forget often that sometimes, the universe does have its ears open.

He really shouldn't have thought of running into the cute photographer boy after all. Fuck intuition.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was cleaned up! the rest is not... so good luck lol.


	2. (二) In a maze without an answer, a different me lay awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [pinterest board for visuals](https://pin.it/2EAZAju)  
> Key:  
> 昔: past  
> 今: present
> 
> tw: abandonment, blood, light hysteria, just mentioned organs

今

  
  


Fun fact: Lee Donghyuck likes being shoved against walls by pretty men.

He learns this when he finds himself pressed against a rough brick wall, knuckles scraping over the surface as he reaches out. Donghyuck leans his head back just to take a good look at the man in front of him. Neon lights don't do him justice but he shines nevertheless. His cheeks are red, neck flushed (both damp with sweat, he realises) and eyes dazed with specks of blue and violet dancing in them. 

Mark the stranger has very soft lips that taste the same as his tongue does. They burn with every press, every slide. Mark is a slick bastard, sweet and conniving, coaxing his mouth open as soon as they left the bar.

Donghyuck's hand finds the nape of Mark's neck and tilts his head. He tries reattaching their lips, misses and laughs, kissing down his cheek to reach his neck. His camera swings around on an elbow and hits him in the knee but Donghyuck ignores it in favour of sucking dark spots onto Mark's soft neck. He breathes heavily. Donghyuck moans loudly, moving his hips along a well-placed thigh.

Mark shushes him, turning to find the pair of lips he's been caressing for the past half hour. He gasps and then bites the younger's swollen bottom lip, tugging at it hotly. Their tongues meet in the middle. In a frenzy, their teeth clash lightly. Donghyuck pulls back to giggle and Mark follows, chuckling as he presses their sweaty foreheads together. 

Donghyuck moves to kiss down the glittery blond's neck -- rutting along and feeling all his blood run south -- arms wrapped around his body when something vibrates in Mark's pocket. 

Glitter guy groans -- frustrated -- and pulls out his phone. 

"D'cabbie arrived Hyuck, we need t'go home." He says, as coherently as possible, before slumping over and leaning his head on the other's shoulder. 

Donghyuck doesn't want to relent. Not yet. It's been over a year since he's had someone in his arms, and it doesn't help that this human is both cute _and_ sexy. (His mouth positively waters as he eyes Mark's dishevelled hair and bunched up sweater. He wants to bite the exposed skin of his stomach.)

"Mhm, lesgo," Donghyuck tries to speak as he deepens their kiss, eyes fluttering closed. Neither of them is ready to let go yet. Fingers grasp onto fabric and noses rub against cheekbones as Mark opens his mouth again, enjoying being led this time.

Exchanging sloppy kisses in an alleyway after midnight is more intoxicating than all the alcohol they consumed earlier. Combined. 

Fingers run through his hair and over his ear before Mark finally pulls away. His phone is vibrating again.

"Donghyuck?" The older leans in to press a chaste kiss to Donghyuck's pout before murmuring against them, "Cab." The word 'cute' has run through his mind too many times for it to be healthy.

Mark finally pulls away to hold out his hand and what would Donghyuck say? No? Not a chance in hell. 

*

It's the second time tonight that Donghyuck feels his butt rub against uncomfortable leather. Sure, there's a thin layer of cotton and then there's another layer of denim in between but that doesn’t keep him from squirming. His hoodie feels hot too. 

Mark places both his hands on the other's thigh, trying to stop him from moving.

"Why d'you wanna move so much?" He whines, forcibly holding Donghyuck's hips in place. He nuzzles into the younger's neck and stays there, breath slowing. 

Both of them are dead tired. He feels his heartbeat slowing down, matching the stilted rhythm of a drizzle. Their eyes are drooping. The dream man (sand-man? sandy-man? DreamWorks version or is this an Edgar Allen Poe?) hovers around the edges of Donghyuck's vision. 

He suddenly feels concerned about his brain cells. 

"Neurons, 's called neurons not brain cells," Mark corrects him. 

Now he's been voicing his inner dialogue out loud, that's definitely not a good sign. He pats Mark's neck, pushing it further into his own chest.

He can articulate stuff like a whole ass author name but can't really remember his new phone number. How will he leave any contact information for Mark? His dreams of having a book written about his whirly romance will die right here.

The city is a blur as he tries looking out the window. It's dark, and there isn't enough light for him to see anything on the streets. Donghyuck doesn't quite remember what he's been looking for, but it seems important. He turns back and leans his head on top of Mark's mop of soft hair.

Donghyuck's bones carry a phantom ache, threatening to dismantle him. (It's the sudden loss of adrenaline. He's not just falling, he is crashing, but his brain hasn't caught up yet.)

Before they know it, they're trying to bicker through barely intelligible murmurs and fall asleep, holding each other close.

*

When Donghyuck comes back to some form of semi-consciousness, it's twenty minutes later when Mark shakes him, and the ache in his body has spread to take over the veins.

Everything happens fast.

The other leans over him (stomachs rubbing, stomachs rubbi-) and the door springs open. Donghyuck tries to turn around and grab Mark's wrists but finds himself being pushed by two firm hands on his back. 

"Get some sleep. Goodnight."

Before he can string together a question (or anything really, he hasn't even thought up a single word yet), he's standing on his own two feet -- miraculously -- just outside his hotel, and the cab door has slammed shut before it just...drives away. 

He doesn't even have enough vocabulary to explain _this_. What the fuck just happened? Did he just get ghosted in real life?

So much for a whirly romance.

(He wants to take a picture of the cab as it shrinks away and then disappears around a bend. But he can't. Fucking unlucky.)

  
  


今

  
  


Na Jaemin wipes a sticky hand on his shirt, smearing crimson all over.

He leans down, pulls a stained glove from his victim's pocket and goes to twist open the doorknob to his apothecary. There is a splatter on the door window; the dim light makes it reflect like a mirror. 

It hasn't been a nice evening. 

His best friend hasn't been answering his calls all day, one of his younger brothers went to that charity dinner thingy by himself, he hasn’t seen his sunshine’s face yet and a failed drop-off because this big dumb chunk of meat tried attacking him. 

Jaemin glares at his own hazy reflection before pushing the door open. Now he has to make arrangements for the other dead guy to be returned to his grave (all the way across town). And his apothecary has blood all over the front. 

Not nice.

What really ticks him off isn't the fact that there are two corpses lying on the floor, fresh blood oozing out of one and a plastic body bag wrapped around the other. It's the fact that there is light where it isn't supposed to be. He looks around to check for the source.

There's a badly placed white bulb over the graffitied wall just a few doors over. 

It throws light onto the scene. He makes a mental note to threaten that building’s owner to have the irritating bulb removed by morning. When he bought the 22/11, he had made certain that the area was a low-light zone. He can't risk people's misplaced sense of aesthetic interfering with his work.

He can't be seen. 

He's supposed to be dead.

And this damned lightbulb just led some idiot to photograph him. He wouldn't even have noticed if it weren't for how silent 22nd street was after sunset. 

He pushes the door open wider and grabs onto the warm body's legs to drag the man inside. It's a chore with how bulky this man is. What a fool he must have been, to have spent all his life on brawn rather than brain, for a simple knife took his life.

The photographing idiot was lucky Jaemin lost his glasses while tussling with the drop-off person. If he had just seen his face…

But he _had_ seen a hoodie, orange, and if it hadn't been bright (perhaps neon?), the colour would have never reached his eyes. 

He stands back and rubs his sides. This is going to take all night. He wonders if there’s an extra shirt in the back.

As soon as he gets the floor scrubbed clean, he's going to have that neon photo idiot's head hung over his fireplace.

  
  


昔

  
  


Donghyuck grew up on beaches, playing with shells, sand in his slippers, citrusy juice running down his chin and curly hair -- always a mess due to the salty air. So when the WCFN itinerary mentions an island, he is overjoyed. 

In Zanzibar, the beaches are white. If you look from afar, it seems like a fine blanket of snow meeting crystaline waters. Tiny shells adorn the shore and Donghyuck picks a particularly odd shaped piece. His brother likes shells.

In the far distance exists the most peaceful definition of nothing. Blue stretches infinitely, waves lulling all sea creatures into a trance. Perhaps Donghyuck too, was a child of the sea in his past life. Water seems to find him and he seems to find water almost wherever he goes. His family home in Jeju is about a kilometer away from a water reservoir and a twenty minute drive from the local beach. In Seoul, he crosses the Han every day, it’s sparkling charms pulling him like a magnet. They had explored a cove the first three days of their trip, and now, barely halfway through, they had sailed to the beautiful island. 

Donghyuck waddles past a clawing crab, carefully stepping into the cool water. The sun shines bright and his skin sears with happiness. 

He is very much a child of the sea.

*

He runs into Jungwoo that night -- not for the first time but they haven’t spoken more than greeting each other every morning -- and they decide to have drinks together. 

They’re both happy drunks, sharing many stories of their childhood ("One of my siblings attacked the other with his violin bow in high school!" followed by"All my siblings planned to dunk me into an algal bloom once!"), laughing and singing along with the other travellers. 

It was the night that they finally hit off, a new friendship blooming on a serene ocean shore.

All the younger members of WCFN are out and about. The shack where they had dinner was closing up, the owner pleased with the business for the day, an overflowing tip jar and a finished stock of fish. All of them are still singing, feet covered in sea salt. Their faces, however, are mellow and the exhaustion from meeting people and touring all day makes them ready to fall asleep any moment. 

"How’s Seoul?" The older asks, one hand drawing patterns into the sand, the other wrapped around a warm bottle of beer.

"Nice. Busy, it’s always so busy, I can’t tell the days apart sometimes. The air is different in Seoul, y’know, modern yet rustic. I like it," Donghyuck replies, sipping on his own beer as he settles down next to the other. 

It _is_ nice. Endless streetlights, long smooth roads, glass structures that never end and pop music overflowing from every possible television screen. Even the small phone booths and cafes hidden underground. He loves all the hallmarks of tradition that remain scattered across the landscape. It is nice, but he can’t find a bigger word that he feels in his heart.

Constellations twinkle above him and Donghyuck wants to desperately miss his box-like apartment -- white walls and wooden floors -- but he doesn't. He can't miss a place that's empty. 

There are people here, around him, next to him, even somewhere far beyond where the other end of this ocean finally meets land. Back in Seoul, there are barely any stars in the sky, barely any clouds. It’s a blank canvas most nights. It needs a painter but there seems to be no one most of the time, too tired with their effort on sparkling sunrises. There are countless people on the streets, every single life rushing to fulfil purpose.

But...it doesn’t feel anything like home. 

"I sense a ‘but’ in there," Jungwoo comments, almost as if he’s managed to read Donghyuck’s thoughts.

"It gets lonely sometimes. I’ve been living by myself for over two years now, I miss home a lot. It’s like I’m trying to make myself a home in Seoul, but I just can’t, you know what I mean?" 

Maybe tipsy Donghyuck has the underestimated gift of articulating emotions he doesn’t even know he’s been feeling. He needs to drink more often. But it is the truth, no matter how beautiful the fountains in parks and uphill pavements built of unique stone may be, he wants more. He craves the scent of earth being hit by waves, of dust settling under his feet and the tang of oranges beneath everything. 

A warm palm covers his own hand. 

"For a long time, me and all my siblings -- and we’re a lot, mind you -- didn’t really know which place to call home," As he speaks, Jungwoo wears an expression that is neither lit up by artificial light, nor touched by moonlight, "I wasn’t born in Neo City -- my mother and I went there when I was pretty young. A few years into school and I got into all these volunteering organisations.

Once I started travelling, I realized, wherever I kept going back again and again was my home. Since then it’s always been a few months in Neo, a few months flying."

Donghyuck hums, head propped up on his shoulder, soft sand giving way beneath his sweaty fingers. "What’s Neo like?" 

"You need to be there to feel it- no, really! It isn’t even just a city...it feels like it has a soul of its own...and to live there, you must be in sync with it. At all times."

Donghyuck tilts his head back. To be in synchronisation with a place, at all times, almost as if you have a sync button in your brain menu the same way an android phone does. It sounds fascinating. 

"Then I’ll just have to go there someday. What do you think, will I fit inside your suitcase?"

Jungwoo laughs.

"A perfect fit, Hyuck, cheers!" They raise their near empty bottles, warm on the inside. 

They stay there a little while longer, the din around them dwindling. Both of them look at the darkened waters, but then those warm hands from earlier tug him up. The two of them are joined by a few others and they stumble back to someplace where waves won’t swallow them if they fall asleep. 

As they walk, Donghyuck turns to see the endless black one last time. 

Who knows what secrets the ocean hides, deep below, where it is perpetually dark, where no human can ever hope to reach -- submarine or no submarine.

The sea has layers, Donghyuck’s mother once told him, and those layers are not for us to see. Just like a person. Like I can’t see into your heart, and you can’t look into mine. Every person is a sea. 

Now that he thinks about it, it’s not just a profound comparison. 

If Lovecraft and his mother were both to be believed...ah, every child of the sea is a lot more than what meets the eye.

  
  


今

  
  


Light pours in through chinks in the curtains and he shuffles around, oddly placed pillows squishing under his weight. His legs feel like lead weights tied down to his torso. 

With how terribly his temples throb, he feels like a ticking time bomb ready to blast any moment.

Donghyuck is in his hotel room. How he reached it is a mystery only the CCTV camera can answer.

If there's something Donghyuck doesn't like more than waking up early, it's waking up to hangovers, and he still manages to, quite often. Which is why he has something of a little routine to combat the pain of excessive thought every such morning. Muscle memory keeps him alive as his brain continues to sleep.

He props himself on an elbow, lunging around to find his phone. He finds it under his leg. It's still dead. Sighing, he stretches to reach the cord lying on the floor and plugs it in.

It takes another ten minutes of pointless suffering before he stands up. The first thing he needs to do is close the curtains tight, maybe clip them together. He loves sunlight but not when it's busy being an enemy. Then he needs to rummage through his backpack and see if he's carrying any painkillers. He's lucky because a leaf of said painkillers sits right in the front pocket of his bag. 

He downs one with a large gulp of water, then proceeds to finish the whole bottle. Ah, sweet water. What a change for his dying throat.

*

When Donghyuck brushes his teeth, he notices a red patch on his neck. It's a hickey, but not dark enough to last long. He prods at it and it doesn't even hurt. It will start fading before the day ends. 

As he focuses on getting the bristles to make his incisors squeaky clean, a certain giggle echoes in his mind. He remembers Mark. 

Soft, rambling, very much drunk and very much sexy. He remembers the way his lips felt against his skin, hungry yet careful. He had never imagined that the next time he would find someone he'd like to dick down (or be dicked down by, not picky) would be here, in a city he plans to leave within the month.

In any other world, Mark would be a dream. Talkative but interesting, cute and funny with natural charm. But that's in any _other_ world. 

This Donghyuck was left stranded at nearly four in the morning.

Objectively, he knows he's good-looking. Donghyuck follows an actual skincare routine and his shiny skin is proof of his hard work. He has beautiful legs -- toned from years of dancing. There isn't much that he doesn't have, he's desirable in every physical aspect and he had actually _talked_ to Mark. Which should have been a dead giveaway that he's a pretty decent man.

Donghyuck turns off the tap with a flick of his finger. Look, he even saves water while brushing! Bet Mark doesn't.

He shouldn't be bothered by it.

Donghyuck sloshes the froth around his mouth and spits out, the same way Mark pushed him.

*

After showering he decides it's time to sit down and think like a responsible adult. Before he can get to any grizzly issues, he entertains the idea of Mark possibly leaving some form of contact (read: redemption) but there's nothing around.

Donghyuck knows for a fact that his phone has been switched off for over twelve hours. There were no scribbles on his arms, no notes in the clothes. He had even checked the bed in case something had fallen out. Nothing. 

Mark has officially left him in the dust and well, it was a nice one-time thing even if it didn't lead to anything. Donghyuck isn't going to be petty about it. A stranger is a stranger after all, someone he isn’t supposed to know.

Although a make-out session hadn't been this... invigorating. In a very long time. He'll send his thanks to the universe instead, hoping they'll forward the sentiment.

He shouldn't dwell on it for too long. So what if assholes exist? He knew that before last night.

(It still hurts. 

He remembers a Pinterest post he read the other day, something saying that being nice to bad men won't stop them from doing bad to you. In retrospect, being fairly nice to that glitter guy didn't change anything. So what if he screamed? That was just once! 

There are many socially acceptable things Donghyuck prides about himself. One of them is being courteous towards someone he sleeps with. Another is being courteous towards someone he doesn't end up sleeping with despite a full flirting phase. Like last night. 

He feels...used? No, that's too dramatic even for him. After all that man had no personal obligations towards Donghyuck.

He just feels upset. Let down.

It's as if the only good thing that had happened to him since landing in Neo was stolen from his fingertips.)

Once his phone turns on, there are a few messages that come in. He reassures his mother that he's alive then tells his brother to step up his meme game. At the end, he opens his chat with Jungwoo. It's just a simple good morning message, with a reminder that they will meet up later that evening (and a ':D').

Upon seeing Jungwoo’s name, Donghyuck blanches. The events from last night suddenly hit him with full force. Fuck.

*

The camera battery is pulled out as fast as possible and put into its adaptor. 

Donghyuck thanks every single deity above and below that he managed to bring back his camera somehow. He has almost always forgotten it whenever he went drinking in the past. As the light on the adaptor blinks red, he falls down onto the bed and stares at the pale ceiling. (For a second, he can pretend that the city disappears. Just for a second.)

The safest bet would be to simply delete all pictures. 

There will be nothing left to trace him back, nothing to hold him guilty of concealing a crime. 

To be honest, Donghyuck hadn't thought much when he first saw _him._ A shiver had run down his spine, his gut alerting him that this man smells of danger and there might be no coming back if he lingered anywhere near that street.

While running, he did, in fact, think of going to the police. But Donghyuck isn't a complete fool. He has seen enough crime shows on television in his youth (and even now, with chips in hand and a pillow for snuggling). His phone had been dead, which meant he had no map to guide him. 

He could have easily asked anyone else, he knows, he could have even asked Mark!

But something inside him decided he wasn't going to do that. 

A brutal murder in the open, where anyone could notice. Not normal.

After a while of deliberation, he finally forms a coherent thought about the strangeness of this situation. The man with pink hair and a wide grin may or may not be someone...protected...if he was ready to kill in an open environment and not care about all the evidence he was leaving.

"Delete any trace of whatever happened last night. Pretend I was never there in the first place," Donghyuck says to himself, rubbing a hand over his face.

With the pictures gone, all the evidence will disappear. The hickey will fade, he will have to keep a low profile (maybe dye his hair) and as soon as Jungwoo leaves for his honeymoon, he will grab the next flight back home.

In the blink of an eye, Donghyuck sits up and pulls out his laptop. It's time to get to work.

  
  


今

  
  


Work means staring at travel agencies online and comparing ticket prices. The cheapest option at the moment might as well empty his wallet. He still hasn't been paid in full for the magazine submissions he made last week. Travel needs to become decently affordable, sweet Jesus, why does everything in this world have to be hellishly expensive? 

But guess what. They still lure him in. 

The white cursor hovers over a reasonable price, circling. With this much heavy scrutinising his computer screen wants to hide behind the bed. 

Maybe if he sells a little blood, he can afford to go home.

(A quick Google search tells him that he would only be paid thirty dollars if he donates plasma twice a week. Blood donation is free. In this big bad capitalistic world? Not nice, it's time to look for an illegal blood dealer...or consider how to function on one kidney.

An hour later, he doesn't know what horrifies him more, the fact that people can sell a kidney and finally afford to buy a plane ticket or that the law allows people to sell their own hearts?

If he runs into Mark again, the man is gonna have to learn how to survive on one kidney.)

The clock ticks past eleven. It's almost time for the room service boy to come and change bedsheets.

Donghyuck lowers the screen and leans back in the chair. This is it. An optimistic cluster of thoughts chirp that perhaps he is safe already. That if he was wanted dead, it would have happened by now. Maybe the man never saw him? 

He's very certain that if he just deletes the pictures and runs away after citing family reasons, nothing bad will happen. Jungwoo might be upset. However the man is a wingless angel, he will understand to the best of his abilities. At worst, Donghyuck’s mom can definitely fake an illness or two. If he leaves now, they can find a replacement photographer easily. 

And Mark...perhaps sweet Mark who calmed him down and kissed him all nice and did _not_ leave him stranded, will have to do with remaining a figment of imagination. He's done with Neo City. His gut feeling and tarot cards are correct after all. 

While he mourns his fictional professional demise, the battery adaptor blinks green.

*

As soon as the camera switches on, he navigates through the menu -- ready to delete the last few images. However, as soon as the gallery opens, something catches his eye. 

He immediately zooms in.

Dull pink hair, pale skin and a white shirt. But no clear facial features.

The murderer wasn't looking at him at all. In any of the pictures. It was a glint of light -- a badly placed light reflecting into his camera, but the head wasn't turned towards him at all. 

The picture is fairly blurry, taken with a shaky hand. A man is falling down with blood spraying out of his throat, but it isn't clear. There is a door behind them, with a little window but everything else isn't visible enough.

That is when realisation strikes Donghyuck.

The very reason he even caught a glimpse of this was because a light had flashed brighter. 

It happens sometimes, due to electrical fluctuations in places that aren't supplied with enough power to match consumption. Donghyuck himself has run into the issue multiple times as he photographed in rural areas or heavily lit up exhibitions. 

He might have been spotted after he was done taking pictures...but it was dark...maybe he can place a bet on this. 

If the murderer didn't see him clearly, he would have a harder time chasing him. He may not be able to find Donghyuck at all.

Maybe...he should talk to Jungwoo about reporting the crime.

  
  


今

  
  


Mark wakes up groggy and irritated. 

Which might be a severe understatement as to what he feels. If he could fall off his bed and die, he would do it without hesitation. He can't even jump out of his window. He lives on the first floor.

Self-depreciation hours: open.

He's generally feeling like a dick. It happens some mornings, but today it's bad. Because today he has a reason.

He remembers making out with a beautiful boy, but there's no memories beyond kissing. There's a high chance he just left the boy floundering. His head hurts too much to let him think, but he knows he's messed up somehow. Another day, another disappointment.

An alarm clock goes off in the near distance, enjoying its last shaky dance before Mark grabs it and flings it off his nightstand.

A beat passes before he springs out of bed, diving head first into piles of abandoned books to salvage the last of his time-telling machine.

*

Last night was... adventurous. For lack of a better word.

Warm water does miracles for the knots under his skin. Mark moans and he simply wants to melt like butter under a hot knife. Once he is done showering, he feels better, but his mind remains cluttered with thoughts of yesterday. 

He doesn't remember a lot of it, but whatever he does remember, it's enough to fill him up with an unknown feeling. (It's the same as that time when he followed Jungwoo into a house party which ended with him throwing up into the pool.) 

He's never doing this again. Jungwoo and his wild ideas can go drown in a ditch.

He pats his hair dry and searches for fresh clothes to wear. Once he sees the mess he calls his wardrobe, he recalls getting dressed for the dinner in good spirits, only to figure out that the host was a bitch who just wanted to raise money and didn't even care about anyone 'not heterosexual'. Fuck him (figuratively, he wasn't nice enough to grant even a pity fuck).

Dinner had continued on an awkward note and Mark left early, citing his brother wasn't feeling very well. 

Yeah, right. One doesn't _feel_ very well six feet underground anyway. 

As Mark steps into a new pair of briefs and tries to locate his comb, he finds himself standing in front of the mirror. There are curious spots all over the base of his neck, tinged red. 

He blushes.

He'd been...stupidly adventurous, taking public transport and leaving his designated car behind. Meeting a panicked stranger... drinking with said _stranger..._ and then... sucking faces with him. 

The memories are enough to bother him (in a nice way).

He sits down on his comforter, thinking about Donghyuck. 

Beautiful and handsome Donghyuck with chocolate-like hair who didn't turn him away. Kind Donghyuck with heart shaped lips who kissed him. Sexy Donghyuck who just wanted to take him to his room. Mark wants to bury himself in a soft pile of plushies and vanish.

He doesn't deserve to, not after he behaved like a prick. He genuinely didn't mean to, but it happened and time doesn't bend backwards to fix anyone's mistakes.

A few minutes into reliving the best part of his night (hugging everything in reach and squealing), the urge to call and apologize overtakes him.

He hadn't been kissed decently in...forever. He wanted to nuzzle into hair, softly, needily. But it isn't fair to a stranger. It isn't fair to be part of Mark's lonely fantasies without knowing anything. And perhaps that is why he left, even if he didn't do it the correct way. He should (no, needs to) make things right. If Donghyuck forgives him for running away, he might gain a new friend.

It is in this moment that Mark Lee realises he's definitely the pinnacle of utter foolishness.

Mark blinks, trying to remember if he left his number for the younger. Scurrying to check his own phone, he finds no new contact entries, no new text or note.

He muffles a groan into his pillow and repeatedly hits the mattress. Mark knew he was dumb at times but this was a new low. He left the cutest stranger he's ever met feeling completely like a one-night stand. 

Mark Lee is his own worst enemy. 

But social media accounts are easy to find. He told Donghyuck his full name right?

*

When he's deemed himself well enough to step into a not-his-room environment (wrapped in a bedsheet and hair still looking like a bird's nest), Mark locks the door behind himself. It's barely past eleven, and if he's lucky, there will be something left in the fridge for him.

As he steps out into the corridor, everything turns golden, warm, touched by sunlight. Ancient wooden grilles cast shadows on the floor, and Mark swears he can see them slither. The carpet blazes, a rich auburn, and he feels blessed. Beauty is meant to be shared but there's no one else to witness it.

The house is as good as deserted. 

All doors are closed; some have been locked for months. As he leans over the banister, he looks down to find the living area empty. He doesn't even run into anyone on the staircase. 

It's odd. Jarring, really.

Where Mark couldn't go a day without listening to someone bickering or crying about college once, he can't go without a piercing silence now. He loves peace. He loves quietude. But this unsettles him.

This house has history. 

Every handle, every pillar and each soft throw pillow has years of someone's life hiding within them. 

Once upon a time, this building used to belong to a ballet academy. After a religious revolution, they began sheltering nuns and priests. 

Eventually, after decades of changing owners and purpose, the property fell into possession of the largest education campus in Neo City. It became a dormitory, and Mark still lives in the same room he was allotted when he transferred here in ninth grade.

When all of them -- Mark, his family, friends, anyone who has ever lived in this building -- pitched in whatever money they had and started a fund to buy the place, they'd had so many dreams. Most rooms underwent heavy remodelling, the pillars were patched up, construction work took more than a season and when they came back, the place had suddenly become lively.

Now, of the dozen people who used to live here back then, only half still occupy their rooms.

Mark has thought about moving out as well. Empty rooms and dust settling in the library haunt him.

He would if he wasn't so, well, comfortable here. There isn't any other place in Neo that makes him feel like he's alive. Every piece of ebony in this place makes him feel welcomed. There’s a plethora of glass out there in Neo where people claim to be breathing luxury. Glass can shatter, and besides, luxury is wherever Mark feels comfortable.

The best thing is that Taeil still lives here. The old man needs someone to take care of him and Mark is more than willing to drop by his room every once in a while.

*

"What's up with the bedsheet?"

Mark stills on his way to the kitchen.

He swivels around. Mark can't believe his luck. He hasn't heard that mellow drawl in a while. He meets the one person he hadn't expected to run into that morning. Or any morning. At all.

At the head of their long dinner table stands a man. He's leaning against his chair, back towards Mark, head turned in interest. His pastel hair flops onto his forehead, eyes circled by dark bags and smudged eyeliner. In his palms, he's nursing what looks like a cup of black coffee. 

"Jaemin."

*


	3. (三) We’re trapped inside, losing what’s real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an oc is mentioned, but he's not important, what happens with him on the other hand, might be.
> 
> tw: mentioned drug abuse and underage sex. both are consensual, even though one party decides they didn't like it later due to other reasons. hinted mental illness.

今

  
  


Mark Lee is a man of his word.

Most of the time.

The last time he'd seen Jaemin, he promised to himself he won't reach out again. The pastel haired man is a symbol of all the losses he has suffered in life. Mark doesn't blame him, he wasn't even involved. The younger had only held his hand, like a real sibling would, standing strong as heavy rain hit the city. 

Back then however, an inkling in his gut told him to keep distance. 

Now though, now as he looks at him -- easy posture, tired face and silk shirt -- he can't help but forget why his gut was so opposed in the first place.

Jaemin raises an eyebrow, eyes fixed on the bed sheet wrapped around Mark. 

"Good morning," Mark says, voice faltering as he feels embarrassed, "I didn't have any clean clothes, shit load of laundry," He had hoped not to run into anyone. Especially not the morning he decided to forego actual clothes in favour of a bed sheet dress (It's not his fault really when the dining room is empty most days).

Jaemin laughs, a warm full-chested laugh that Mark hasn't heard in ages. 

Mark's throat constricts. 

Just how long has it been since he's actually seen the other? Just how long has he been projecting his own incapability of dealing with loss? A warmth nudges him to walk closer, to see every new facet of Jaemin he has missed in the time they were apart.

"You could have gone for a chiton concept, although this isn't bad, very functional I'd say," The man points out before taking a sip of his coffee, "Although if I were asked to wear it, I would cut clean holes for my head and arms. Make it a poncho look-alike, you know what I mean?"

"Mhm, but then I can't use it again." Mark nods, ears cherry red and lips pressed into a straight line. 

"Ah, right, it can just be a nice addition to your closet then?" He laughs loudly again, shaking and nearly spilling his drink.

That. 

Mark has missed that.

There's finally laughter ringing in his ears, the tight coil of his gut loosening and a person he thought he was destined to lose right in front of him.

"I missed you." He says, brain to mouth filter malfunctioning.

A small smile greets him.

It's the same from when they parted ways over a grave. It seems like time had stopped at that moment two years ago, and now, some rowdy toddler had decided to click on the unpause button. The cassette tape of life unwinds as it reels, slow and dusty.

"And so have I. You look worried, we don't need to talk but we _can_ eat together, right?"

*

"You okay?" Mark asks, as fried bacon is scraped onto his plate. A glass -- his glass, with the green stripes around the bottom -- is placed next to it. Mark averts his eyes to his feet. So Jaemin does pay enough attention, even when all they have done is nod if they cross paths in a long while.

"I'm okay, strawberry milk?"

"Strawberry milk," he affirms.

As they try to make small talk, (painful and awkward, neither of them like to hold casual conversation) Jaemin yawns and walks over to the dining table, carrying the food. Mark follows, a jug of freshly brewed coffee in hand.

"I wonder if you'll ever ditch milk and try coffee, it's the ultimate fuel,"

"I'd sooner die than drink your coffee, Jaemin," Mark says, snorting and heading to sit in his chair. Surprisingly, the pastel head pulls out a seat next to him before plopping down. (They have a seating arrangement from the old days, but Jaemin, at the head of their table, is too far to speak comfortably to. And if there's anything both of them have in common, it's sticking to convenient arrangements.) He hasn't eaten breakfast with anyone except for Taeil in months.

Something at the back of Mark's head tells him to stay safe, to be cautious. He decides not to pay attention and speaks.

"You look tired, have you been sleeping well?"

"Mhm, I was in a very long meeting all evening. A deal fell through, and I wanted to make sure news doesn't get out to my competitors. And then my glasses broke, I couldn't even see anything till I somehow got home and Nuko managed to find my spares."

The cat in question -- Nuko -- is nowhere to be seen. She's probably sleeping in her owner's room after a long day. Nuko's pretty old but still manages to have sporadic bursts of energy. Like when she randomly shows up to scratch at Mark's legs or jumps over the piano.

Jaemin gives him a bright grin, knowing Mark hasn't bought his explanation one bit. 

Mark knows him too well. He finds Mark returning a small disbelieving smile.

"The hair suits you," The younger says, taking a sip of his coffee. 

"Thanks, I wanted to try something new before classes began. You look pretty good in pink too," Mark says as he fidgets, picking up a fork.

"Thank you. Don't your students come back today?"

"Yeah... something happened and I was out late, so I didn't find time to dye my hair. Maybe I'll just be the blond teacher then?"

"It's not a bad look, really, though I do have a box of instant dye in my room. I can get it for you?"

"Won't you need it?"

Jaemin runs a hand through his fading hair. His eyes are focused on the table, contemplating.

"Not really, not yet. I think I need to keep them pink for a while..."

He hums in reply, unsure of what that means.

Na Jaemin, Mark thinks, is the definition of a Neo citizen. If this city were alive, if blood ran through its gutters instead of water and the buildings breathed more than they already do, it would assume the shape of a 26 year old man with haunted eyes and fingers that smell of disinfectant. Silk and well woven linen cover the ruins of a time that doesn't exist beyond city limits.

People are right when they say the air in Neo is different.

The younger taps a finger on the table and looks at Mark. His mug is empty but he isn't reaching out to refill it.

"Mark, I need a favour."

  
  


昔

  
  


Alright, Donghyuck needs to make a confession. 

He is a nature enthusiast, no doubt about it -- he even joined the gardening club back in college -- but that might not have been the _entire_ reason for tagging along with the WCFN on their East African campaign. 

About seventy percent, give or take, of the reason _was_ his love for scenic places. One of his friends once told him about how beautiful living in Africa could be if he just found the right place. He's not making excuses. Mother nature loves her children and he doesn't want to offend her.

The other thirty percent isn't easy to explain. 

Lee Donghyuck has a... weird relationship with all things crime and disorder. 

When it comes to upholding the values of a moral and responsible citizen, he is exemplary. Sure, he wasn't ever valedictorian or even the brightest student within his batch, but he is righteous. Paired with a generally sharp mind, it makes Donghyuck someone his siblings have always looked up to.

But this newfound sense of differentiating between all the greys is kind of a recent thing. You could say military service changed something, or it could even be his slew of broken relationships. ("You never know," a friend had said once, "If it's you changing a relationship or a relationship changing you, to be honest, or if it's both of those and you just never notice.")

He is a freelancer, but that hadn’t always been the case.

In fact, he left his fixed job just a month before he met Jungwoo.

  
  


今

  
  


Donghyuck takes a leap of courage.

He saves the pictures onto his phone, deletes them from his camera and wraps up his neon orange hoodie in a laundry bag. He throws the bag inside the closet, making sure it remains out of immediate view, right behind his suitcase. 

He still has about half an hour to shower and get dressed.

*

For being as rich as he seems, Jungwoo owns a modest car. Sure, it’s sleek and functional but it doesn’t scream money (Or edge lord for that matter. He feels a little let down. Just a little). 

*

As they pull onto the main street and make their way through evening traffic, Donghyuck strikes up a simple conversation and it flows. As much as Jungwoo likes to overshare, he is a good listener. He interjects with questions and exclamations exactly where they are required. If Donghyuck himself didn’t have an ulterior motive at the moment, he would have good reason to be suspicious.

He's about to talk about the pictures, about everything that happened last night. He feels he can trust Jungwoo (and he should, he reasons, after all that man is the only reason he is here today, miles away from home with a noose slowly tightening around his neck).

As he twiddles his thumbs together, he recognizes the streets they cross. Perfect.

"I wandered around here last night, ended up on a random bus," Donghyuck says, trying to settle his mind on how to approach the matter. I have pictures of a crime? I think I met a serial killer? No, he doesn't even know if the guy was actually a serial killer despite all the make-believe evidence he has gathered overnight.

"Ooh, this is a good area but it's mostly small businesses. Not much you can get out of here unless you have _very_ specific hobbies."

It takes everything to not snort. Then he remembers Mark mentioning those photo enthusiasts and blue fruits. Reality truly is stranger than fiction -- and much more sobering too.

"What kind of hobbies? I saw lots of small houses here, didn't think they were businesses to be honest,"

This is the very area, the very street. 

He knows because he walked all the way, even clicked pictures as he stumbled over new roads. He sees the same street signs as last night, remembers them flashing neon. And then the golden street lamps. The bus stand.

"Just stuff, very niche things, I haven't been here personally," Jungwoo says, hands careful on the steering wheel.

Donghyuck hums, not processing anything. 

A few people wait at the stand, scrolling through phones and listening to music. A dog runs past, following the same path he took yesterday, Donghyuck's eyes following.

He can't believe this. There's no extra security, nothing. No police cars. He has been to enough crime scenes to know that the alleyway that led to the scene is supposed to be taped off. Maybe they have different rules here. Perhaps it's secured just at the spot...? 

Everything comes to a standstill. 

Pedestrians cross the road, unaware of anything. Unaware of the wretched loss that happened right here, just a few feet away. 

Donghyuck asks Jungwoo about the crime rate in their city and the older laughs. 

"Pretty average, just the occasional murders every season, thefts, hit and runs. But don't worry Hyuck, our police force is vigilant. Because there aren't too many strangers if you live in such a closely bound place for such a long time. All the cops know you, and you know all the cops. It's simple. Just don't get involved and you'll stay safe."

'Cryptic' doesn't begin to describe whatever he heard, but as they drive ahead, as Donghyuck holds onto his seat belt tightly, he understands just one thing.

_All the cops know you, and you know all the cops._

A wave of nausea rolls by, the same way the wheels roll, further and further away, never acknowledging any unspoken truths. (Truths of a terror Donghyuck is no longer sure is even...the truth.)

He doesn't need to breach the subject anymore. Jungwoo has answered all his queries in one go. Donghyuck blinks then turns to stare out the window. 

*

He misses the way Jungwoo looks at him from the corner of his eye. 

  
  


今

  
  


Hotpot.

The word is painted in bold red letters on an ageing signboard. Heavy plastic curtains separate the door from the curb and Donghyuck is immediately taken back to memories of streetside mom-n-pop joints. People crowd the entrance and as Jungwoo manages to wade past, the spicy aroma hits his nose.

Donghyuck feels out of place, as if he was morphed into being just then, the scent of metal and rain heavy in his head.

Wordlessly, he follows the older inside and is taken aback.

For being a simple looking small street joint, the place is bustling. Every possible surface is occupied -- even simple stools -- as customers eat. Many of them look young enough to be college freshmen and others stand with school blazers tied around their waists. The air conditioning is strong but it can’t get rid of the sheer heat hotpots create. Donghyuck can already feel sweat on his back. He takes off his jacket and holds onto it as Jungwoo finds them a free corner.

Once they slide into a freshly vacated booth, a harried employee rushes to clean up. 

"I’m sorry for the inconvenience, today is a- oh, it's just you. The usual?" The employee’s expression furrows and for a second, Donghyuck feels a vague familiarity. He has seen that nose scrunch somewhere, recently.

"Be nice to your elders Jisungie, I have a guest today, what do you suggest?" Jungwoo taps his chin in thought.

Jisung quickly wipes down their table and pulls out a notepad, "Are you guys okay with seafood? Our seafood broth is pretty famous, it isn’t very spicy though."

Jungwoo arches a brow in Donghyuck direction and he nods.

"It’s perfect, I don’t think I can handle spice today," He laughs, the back of his head still throbbing a little from his adventures last night.

"Okay, seafood broth and with that vegetable set A goes best, do y’all want meat?"

"Yeah, any kind will do." Donghyuck nods again. Jisung scribbles and quickly disappears with a two-finger salute directed at him

Jungwoo smiles at him and opens his mouth to speak when his phone pings with a notification.

"Sorry, my friend says it’s an emergency, just give me a moment?"

"Sure," Donghyuck affirms and turns to look around as the other texts. The walls are creamy, with just the right amount of scratches and artwork to remind him of comfort spots. 

During his masters, he and his cousin used to go out for dinner every weekend. If he closes his eyes, the chatter takes him back to days when all he worried about was not finishing his stipend every month. Pangs of nostalgia really hit different when you’re in another place altogether.

"My friend messed up his hair, now he looks like a honeybee, funny guy, have to love him. Have you ever messed up with your hair? I’ve ruined mine so many times I can’t even count,"

The slight air of awkwardness disappears. He needs to stop thinking for once. Jungwoo means no harm, no matter what stance he takes, he won’t hurt Donghyuck when the odds are that he will be found and disciplined. He relaxes with that knowledge and meets the other’s eyes.

Donghyuck’s face splits into a large grin. Oh boy, his bones tingle to retell the story when he ended up looking like an annoying orange. There is a sparkle in telling the same old story to someone new every time. He doesn’t have many anecdotes he can share, not when he’s alone and most of his memories are linked to either people or photographic film. (And it will do, it will have to if he wants to forget things for a while.)

Before they know it, Jisung has set up their meal. Thin white soup bubbles over an induction stove right in the middle of their table. Greens take over most of his vision and even a food enthusiast like himself can’t tell apart all the kinds of leaves placed in front of him. What looks like an assortment of chicken and prawns are placed right next to other condiments. Wow, this feels exactly like home _and_ not-home at the same moment.

"Phew, that was heavy, enjoy your meal and if you want, leave me a tip?" Jisung rubs the back of his neck and chuckles before disappearing once again, a flight of high school girls hiding him from view. 

"He’s my best friend -- the honeybee guy’s -- nephew. Nice kid, but if you met him outside of work, he’d be too shy to even open his mouth."

"How old is he? Does he...?"

"Just part-time. Working here is kind of a really big deal. This is where our current Mayor used to work throughout high school _and_ uni. You must have heard of him, Jeong Jaehyun? The mayor with fingertips that smell of spice!"

Donghyuck picks up his chopsticks and drops vegetables into the soup. He stirs them around, thinking.

"Not really, I have read his name before though," He replies, scooping out a hefty serving into his bowl.

"He’s the youngest to hold the chair in the entire country, not just Neo. He’s got balls of steel, if you run into him he can figure out if you’ve eaten in the past 24 hours or not, mad skill really...probably picked it from his husband or something..." Jungwoo mumbles, chin resting on his hand. He moves around the chicken pieces but doesn’t pick them up. 

"You speak like you know him,"

"Oh, I do, or more like I used to, haven’t seen him in ages. We were in the same circles back when he wasn’t mayor. Remember the best friend I mentioned before? They used to be pretty close in uni, same club and everything. That’s how Jisung got recommended here."

 _Huh_ , Donghyuck thinks, pausing mid-bite. Suddenly, he doesn’t have much of an appetite. 

Kim fucking Jungwoo is his own celebrity fucking friend. It’s like knowing Einstein or some shit, absolutely maddening. He never knew that footballers’ kids were actually this socially well-connected. (In a corner of his brain, he files away the information that Jungwoo randomly namedrops a ton of people he could find Wikipedia pages on.) Next thing he knows, Jungwoo might actually be friends with the pink-headed man he saw last night.

Speaking of him though...Donghyuck is forced to stop eating. 

He clearly remembers the place he ran from. If there were no policemen, was there no body? He isn’t certain if the crime scene was further in because then it would make sense to cordon off a smaller area. 

He’s overthinking this. Completely, he should just be honest and come clean.

As soon as Jungwoo drops him back at the hotel, he’ll head out on his own. There is no way he’s going to simply sit on information, potentially hazardous or not. He needs to move, needs to do something.

But for now, all he can do is eat and hope that the killer never saw him.

Belatedly, he wonders if he can stop by a convenience store to buy an umbrella. 

The clouds have been hanging heavy since noon.

  
  


昔

  
  


While it's true that Donghyuck is a freelance photographer, it's only freelance in terms of flexibility now that he's finally handed in his resignation.

He's pretty good at photography in general (if he says so himself). Despite minor issues with colour vision, he manages to capture pure beauty. He especially likes taking pictures in the dark, where almost everything is the same hue, a little skewed and every developed picture turns out to be a piece that completes the puzzle of nightlife.

When he first entered the field, they called him a little star. It meant the world to him. (It reminds him of the constellation on his face, pointed out by a younger, happier mother than he sees now.)

Earlier that year, when spring blossoms were in bloom, painting the city a soothing pink, Lee Donghyuck decided it was time to do something different.

He'd had too much of big city living anyway. 

*

"We'll miss you, Donghyuck, you've been such a great addition to the team." His deskmate, a tall nice man with long hair and a preference for mirror cameras, says as they shake hands. 

The man would be gone for an assignment soon and by the time he'd come back, the cubicle next to his will be wiped clean. No signs of a Lee Donghyuck would remain. 

This cubicle has played an important part in his self-reform. He looks at all the polaroids he's taped on the divider, ranging from wild dinner parties to simpler days just editing pictures. He sweeps a glance across the floor, mostly empty, it's after five in the evening. The slippery feeling in his gut says he's never going to be in an office setting again. Time to lap up whatever he can.

"I'll miss you guys too, you've been great moral support." 

As they share a last bro hug, a shrill voice calls out to him. 

"Starboy, the boss wants to meet you. ASAP."

So much for goodbyes.

*

The conditions are simple.

Or so they seem.

Their latest client wants someone with an investigation background. Donghyuck has done his fair share of snooping around. His folders always have more pictures of people than objects, and by chance or by purpose, they're often being chummy with the wrong people. (More than three divorce cases have used his photographs as evidence this year alone and it brings him joy.)

Which is why it's no overstatement when Donghyuck says he's the best in their department.

However, unlike others, this person has very specific requirements.

The client asks for absolute anonymity. From their description, they seem to be a foreigner who's been roaming the streets of Seoul for a while. The assignment is going to take Donghyuck abroad, undercover as someone trying a hand at nature journalism. If he's able to get good pictures, he can even get wildlife experience and some good money. It's a major win-win situation, except he needs to protect his cover. His client isn't ready to even meet him till the job is done.

Alright.

Anonymity is a mask fashioned of porcelain. Pretty and pristine to hide behind, but the moment it breaks, it can dig into the skin and leave scars. 

The only thing that is actually unusual about the whole situation is that he doesn't know _who_ he has to investigate. 

"The group may be as large as fifty people! How will I know who I'm spying on?" It's outrageous.

"It's demanding, I know. But it will pay you well, and since you've decided to leave anyway, take it as a gift from us. An all-paid trip to the African subcontinent. Just don't get eaten by any sharks, and you're good to go."

Donghyuck slumps into a chair, running a hand through his hair.

"Really? I've worked for the agency, what, four good years -- without weekends -- and this is how you're gonna say goodbye, boss?"

His boss laughs, head thrown back.

"Just imagine it's a vacation. Get close to people, take pictures of them, of everything you see, but be careful. Always."

And Donghyuck is off to his apartment -- a cardboard box filled with his belongings in his arms -- making a quick list of what to pack.

("I told you to take a vacation and you never listened to me, now you're going off to another part of the world," his sister sighs, "Don't be an idiot. Love ya.")

Donghyuck has made many impulsive decisions in life, and as he walks around Dubai duty free waiting for a connecting flight, he comes across the gold shop.

Just outside, there's a display of crystals, hiding inside rugged rock. As he sees his own reflection in the glass, a memory stirs.

  
  


昔

  
  


This isn't a recollection he is proud of. Even then, it flits about every once in a while as a reminder of who he had been. The other person it involves used to be someone important, but now he hasn't heard of him in over nine years. 

It's a story from his younger days, when high school felt like a slaughterhouse and life at home was...tough, for lack of a better word.

If given the chance, he'd go back and pull teenager Donghyuck's ears anyday, but he can't. There are things he has to live with. And his own past is on top of that list.

*

During bleak moments of life, Lee Donghyuck tends to hide. 

Teen Donghyuck hides behind bakery counters and thin bedroom walls. There's always unrest, with three younger siblings and a working mother. His father lives in Busan now and the last time he called any of his children was a month ago. It was a long time coming anyway, and it doesn't bother him half as much as school does. Old ladies show him pitiful eyes and classmates mock him. It's alright though. At least _he_ has a job and they don't.

Donghyuck is applauded, said to be good at dealing with unknown variables, always has been. They would say he's got a snarky sense of humour. A worldview that leaves others entertained and reeling as he wades through pools of doubt effortlessly. 

What a load of bullshit. 

It takes effort. He just knows how to downplay the seriousness of a situation. He downplays and simplifies it enough to win. It isn't anyone's entertainment, it is him protecting himself. He can get through everything with a smile on his face no matter how scared he is on the inside.

But there _are_ unknowns that leave him tight-lipped and paling. 

Such as the time when Donghyuck learns that his boyfriend is abusing drugs.

*

He walks into the small bedroom, a batch of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies and his school bag in tow. 

He had expected to see a spotlessly clean room with sunlight filtering in. What he finds instead are clothes strewn over the floor, books left uncared for, a broken vase and a closed window with heavy curtains drawn. 

In a corner, he finds the person he's been waiting to see all day -- his sweetheart, Chul. There's no smile, no acknowledgement, just smoke and red-rimmed eyes staring blankly into space.

_It's to deal with the stress._

The stress of what? Donghyuck wants to ask, but as he thinks he comes to the conclusion that exam pressure has finally started getting to his head. A mistake is made that glum afternoon. Donghyuck lets it be, cleans his room and settles his boyfriend into bed.

When he fights his mother for the third time that week, understanding dawns.

Academic stress. The internal pressure to be the best, to keep the number one position in all exams, in class, in coaching, everything. To know every word in every textbook because if you don't, you're a failure. You'll be stuck in Jeju all your life, teaching tourists how to fish. Donghyuck feels it too whenever his mother reminds him that high school graduation is _so_ close. An unknown future is hurtling towards him at full speed and he stands there, a sacrifice to whatever is going to strike him down.

(In another universe, he stands in the middle of a busy road. The traffic light turns green and cars race to see who can taste his blood first.)

He has heard stories of students breaking down as a result of the system. Perhaps that's just what's happening with his boyfriend as well. He'll be back to cheerful and studious soon.

Two months later, once their results for the year are back, Donghyuck completely lets go and in the flow of things, ends up in Chul's dimly lit bedroom, a roll in hand, smoke heavy in his lungs and hands hovering under his shirt. If it weren't for how tightly packed and dense the human body is, Donghyuck's lungs may as well have been coughed out to the floor.

An exam gone wrong and a few sharp words can do so much to unhinge a fragile little child. He still has a year of high school left, but apparently all that matters is that he can't perform below standard.

That same night, as he sits by a window, staring up at the moon, virginity becomes nothing but a fleeting concept. Because standards are overrated. Who sets them anyway?

The small noises he makes are new to his ears. He's unclothed within minutes, turned around and there's pleasure he has never even imagined taking over his body as a tongue drags all over him and opens doors to a new universe. His blood sparks and everything is forgotten as heat rushes to his head. 

Until he comes to his senses once all is done and he lays in his own mess.

Donghyuck decides he didn't like it as much as he should have (he felt simply euphoric at his high, but it felt surprisingly like a rushed one night stand, not like sex with his boyfriend of two years). 

There are two reasons for the dislike that grows in him.

He isn't ready for the moral responsibility it brings. This isn't an experience he can talk about no matter how enthralling it had been. He is just seventeen. Even if most of his friends are already sex-crazed, he isn't. He doesn't want to be. (And he had promised, cute sweet Chul had promised, they'd do it in college so what happened just now?)

But it's really the second reason that unsettles him. 

As his boyfriend bent him over and thrust into him mercilessly, he realised that they weren't having sex to consummate love, or even show they like each other. Even if it left him moaning and white-knuckled, the reason for intimacy wasn't pure pleasure either. 

How he knows, he doesn't really know.

Donghyuck's mind does quick reruns of nights when they would cross the PG-13 line. Everytime a kiss deepened or a hand strayed, there was something in the air. Something sweet, hopeful, charged. Now it isn't. 

Chul is trying to forget something. 

Sex is a distraction and Donghyuck wants something real, not to be someone's plaything. He is too young to become someone's semen bag. As their climaxes wane, he stands up, gets dressed and forces the other boy to talk. 

_It's nothing, you shouldn't be bothered about it, Donghyuck let go of me!_

And so he leaves. 

Goes home where he doesn't feel welcome enough, sneaks into his own bedroom, cries because he can't remember the sex, just the image of Chul shrugging him away, telling him to go and his family's faces of disappointment.

Funny thing is, no seventeen year old is strong willed enough to let go of their relationship. There's a shit ton of emotional dependence, the overwhelming fear of nobody else ever trying to understand them and a childish innocence that installs a permanent heart shaped filter in the brain. 

He comes back the very next afternoon as soon as his shift at the bakery ends and finds what every high school lover in fanfiction finds. Another person tangled up with their boyfriend.

He finds Chul and his best friend, naked and sinful. Too sinful for now he can't think of last night without thinking of this moment.

Somewhere, a little dream shatters.

He may not have always been willful, but a switch flips. And so does his middle finger, right in their faces. 

He is prideful, and he doesn't believe in second chances. They've never done anyone any good any-fucking-way. (He remembers his parents, a plethora of failed second chances that only improved when they finally realised that it was never meant to work.)

But that's where Donghyuck's side of the story ends. (He learnt that breaking your ex-boyfriend's nose feels good.)

He went home, cried till his eyes were swollen and got through the final year of high school without so much as glancing at Chul. 

He believes the reason his heart broke -- 'my first heart dent', he likes to call it -- was undue pressure and an innate sense of being unfaithful. 

That's where he gets it wrong.

*

Crime left the first dent in his heart.

Donghyuck doesn't know, and he probably never will. Not unless he tracks Chul down and speaks to him. (Not that it makes the other free of his wrongdoings. He still hurt Donghyuck, and he must bear the weight of that fact.)

All poor Chul did was report a molestation on his best friend's behalf. A report that vanished and never got closure. His friend kept his mouth shut, unwilling to get in further trouble. 

While Donghyuck worked at the bakery most afternoons, Chul borrowed his camera citing hobby as a reason. The camera would have most of its memory wiped when it came back in Donghyuck's hands, only random pictures of blurry flowers and park benches to be scrolled through. 

Things happened this way: Chul clicked proof, got sued for defamation, had a boyfriend struggling with his parents' divorce and he lost the case, he also lost any chance of going to university. 

He spiralled down, dragging Donghyuck with him, only to end up making mistakes he regretted for life. 

Donghyuck learns that words are just that, words. They hold no power if they aren't wanted. Both Donghyuck and Chul broke promises, but that's what teenagers do. He still thinks about it sometimes, that maybe they should have talked. That he should have come clean about his problems instead of ignoring them. But that isn't what happened, and he can't change it anyway.

And fate has it planned such that if Donghyuck had bothered to reach out to him, he would have learnt another very important life lesson.

Don't ever step in someone else's mess.

Ironically, 26 year old Donghyuck makes the same decision that seventeen year old Chul did.

He willingly steps in someone else's mess to get answers that aren't meant for him.

  
  


昔

  
  


Mark stands in his bathroom, putting on a sleep shirt and reapplying clear gloss. Blond suits him but it won't stay long, perhaps just a few days before classes start later this week. He still needs to paint his nails, he thinks as he stares at the chipped blue polish. He'll go with glittery black this time. 

He looks pretty and handsome, Mark admits while smiling, and pats down unruly strands of hair with some water. A distant thought crosses his mind. 

He looks good enough to devour right off the bat but would he really want it?

He's tried a hand at dating. When he was younger, he never saw the need for being with someone. The idea of romance has always appealed to him, but it's difficult to find someone ready to be with him. 

He is easy to love but hard to stay in love with. 

The first time he was told it may have something to do with being a prude, he went out and lost his virginity to the school orchestra instructor. (Questionable because he hasn't even thought of fucking any of his own students so far.)

Mark Lee only looks like a fuckboy, he isn't one.

He fell for the man and was then left behind with a small kiss and a bleeding heart.

First loves don't have to work out, Taeil always reminded him, and Mark worked hard to move on.

Since then he's had break-up after break-up, tired and stressed. At one point, he was convinced there was something wrong with him. Whatever it was that laughing girls and charming men had, he lacked. He doesn't really think that way anymore, but it's difficult to be turning nearly thirty and have no partner.

He stands in front of a mirror, touching his face. He traces his features, ends up on his lips. 

Mark is difficult to understand. He needs a lot of time by himself, and while almost everyone around him has exclaimed that he's a genius at least once (he's not, he really isn't), they're not ready to put up with the childishness his personality brings to the table. It's a part of him, to be both thoughtful yet a little more hopeful than many. 

He can't be the saviour. He doesn't want to be the responsible, suited adult with a solution for everything. He wants to be laidback adult with a solution to some puzzles and a bright smile on his face. (He needs to learn how to smile properly first so that people stop mistaking them as grimaces.) 

Yet, the world won't let him have what he wants.

It's not his fault his thought pattern isn't liked by a lot of people. It's not their fault either. He's eccentric. He knows. He's also simple, but nobody gets it. He has friends alright -- loves them -- those who can read him like the open book he is and those who have fun trying to learn the language it was written in.

But otherwise, it often feels like one versus the whole fucking world, and the world doesn't even know that there's a match. 

(In some corner of his heart, he loves everything and everyone the same as he did when he first saw them.)

It's true he feels lonely. It's true he has people to take that away, but some days, he allows himself to indulge in thoughts of a passionate, private love. 

Today, it isn't the insignificance of the human race or parallel universes running on his mind. It's the thought that he hasn't been decently kissed in ages. He hasn't been held in a comfortable embrace, just swaying side to side with a lover. He falls in love easily, but he falls in love with his brain more than just with his heart. 

He wants to kiss someone and nuzzle into their hair, but softly, slowly, knowing it's not his neediness that will lead him to inevitable heartbreak, but rather lovely love that will eventually turn to companionship. He wants it to be with someone he feels comfortable belonging to -- not toxic, just a want to be enough for one person.

And that's the very reason why he doesn't have a lover anymore. 

Hasn't had a real one in years. 

Their parameters just don't match, his expectations are too high, too unrealistic to come true. (It's also a given he won't find anyone unless he puts himself out there. Maybe, if he gets the right push, he will give it a go.)

Mark kisses his fingers, then presses them onto his cheeks.

Round lip gloss stains his face, shimmering under the bright bathroom lights.

It's okay. 

It's okay, (deep breath) he loves himself as much as he can, and that will have to do for now. If something is wrong with him, he'll just have to figure it out in due time, even if it brings about headache and an unquenchable thirst for dark coffee.

Somewhere in his mind, he starts thinking about just cloning himself and falling in love, but would that be self-love or incest? His clone's genes would be the same as his.

Before he can think too much though, his phone vibrates and there is a knock on the bedroom door. 

It's midnight, it's Mark's 27th birthday. 

He's successfully gotten through another year, and is considerably closer to shutting his eyes closed forever.

*


	4. (四) when it goes off, everyone gathers one by one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: 今 - present ; 昔 - past
> 
> tw: mentions of slight violence and hyuck has a minor panic attack.

今

  
  


There's only so many bombs you can drop on a person in one day. 

As they eat the last of their dinner, slurping hot soup and salvaging mushroom pieces that drowned earlier, Jungwoo clears his throat.

They've talked about a lot of things today, from how cute cat ears can be to the disaster called political elections. 

It doesn't quite settle well, because it raises an uneasy question in Donghyuck's mind. 

He loves talking -- often about things unrelated to either him or his conversation partner -- and he loves listening to what others have to say about things that intrigue him. At the same time, he is a version of Donghyuck who works...solo. He doesn't seem to have many solid friends. His words are stilted, wrapped and stored carefully under the muscle of his tongue. 

Is this what one becomes as time ticks by? A shadow of themselves? Who is to blame for the stripping down of his skin? 

"I have some...news? I guess," Jungwoo chuckles, fingers playing with a stray napkin, unaware he's been the cause for Donghyuck's current existential crisis. 

"My wedding, right? It's been postponed."

Donghyuck stills.

All previous tangles in his head are pushed out a window and now there is nothing but blank space.

"I know it's sudden and after you came here too, gosh, it's just...there were scheduling issues, Hyuck, and now we're putting it off to a few months later. I'm sorry about this whole mess, I really am."

At that moment, Donghyuck wants to be a crab. He wants to live in hot sand, burrowing holes and catching floundering humans by their weak ankles. 

He also wants a hard dark shell.

"No, don't apologize, I'm sorry, Jungwoo, are you sure it's all okay?"

He doesn't think they're comfortable enough for him to reach out a hand yet, so he sits as unmoving as he can, focusing on the older's expression. It's carefully masked -- a variant of expressionless -- but there is a glossy sheen to his eyes.

"It's fine, we talked about it the day you landed you see, and finalized it just yesterday. I should have called you-"

"Hey, it's okay," Best words, what would soothe Jungwoo, what, what, what, (a hazy face surfaces in his mind, all eye smiles and angles) what-

"I got to see Neo thanks to you, I'm probably taking back enough pictures with me to make a tour guide of my own. Really. I'm okay, but what about _you_?"

Jungwoo's eyes go round and then he glances up to the ceiling. His fingers dig into the napkin, tearing it into shreds.

"Not yet, but I will be. I can be."

In this moment, Donghyuck realises that Kim Jungwoo shares a lot but rarely does he say anything about what _he_ feels.

(Much to think about. There is a nagging voice much like his sister's at the back of his head, telling him there are things he should see in a whole new light...but he _doesn't know_ which things. He doesn't know why there's this _nagging_ in the first place-)

Silence falls over and the space that's left is filled in by stray voices from the outside. 

Donghyuck reaches out and holds Jungwoo's hand anyway.

*

When Donghyuck steps out of Hotpot, little-big Jisung towers over him by more than a few inches. He accepts the change and two watermelon candies before asking how old the boy is. Upon confirmation that yes, he had come of age just earlier that year, Donghyuck's mouth curves into a happy smile. 

Normally, if Donghyuck wanted to pull at a stranger's cheeks because they're adorable...he wouldn't put his thoughts into action. It's weird, and he's seen a TV serial where a creepy old man went around squeezing little kids' cheeks to end up in prison for kidnapping. 

Not that he's kidnapping Jisung, no. 

(Belatedly, about eighty percent of Donghyuck's thoughts in the past twenty four hours have been prison related. 

Big yikes.)

Nevertheless, Donghyuck does it. 

He tugs at the eighteen year old's cheeks and gives him another (hopefully) sweet smile.

*

They take a few minutes to rearrange themselves. There's still a mini tour of the area left and as Jungwoo says, his wedding hasn't been put off entirely, just rescheduled. He can handle this.

As the older continues to drive them around, pointing out local shops and important landmarks, Donghyuck tries to calm down his own building nerves.

"There are local shops here, clothes, accessories, phones, name it and you'll have it. Of course you'll be compromising on quality, but the feel of wearing local cotton is better than wearing limited edition Gucci on some days." 

Donghyuck nods in acknowledgement but he isn't listening anymore. Jungwoo's voice isn't firm either, wavering every once in a while as the corners of his eyes grow wet.

Donghyuck has been over-reacting to everything. 

There exist people with actual problems and hardships who choose to hide them and here he is, making a big deal of every little thing that happens. (He doesn't realise he's the same as these people he talks about.)

Every thought seems to spiral out of control. If he thinks about it carefully, he spent a whole morning worried about inexistant danger. His mood keeps swinging back and forth. He's being a fucking fool but he can't help it.

The amount of strangeness and anxiety the past few days have brought him are enough to last this lifetime. There are thoughts in his head that shouldn't be, memories from long forgotten incidents keep coming back and he feels put on edge. 

A fitting analogy in this circumstance would be that the ground beneath his feet had vanished and turned into a tightrope. Donghyuck doesn't know how to fucking ropewalk and so he slips. Now, he's dangling off but the coarse rope cuts into his hands. There's barely a few seconds before the pain becomes too much and he falls into a bottomless hollow. 

He takes in a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, then exhales. 

"Hey," Jungwoo says softly, "you okay bro?"

"Yeah, yeah, cool. Just a little overwhelmed. I don't usually feel this way, it's weird." 

"Should I pull over? You look pale, are you going to be sick, I-"

  
  


昔

  
  


Donghyuck's shoulders feel heavy. Of course they would, he has a whole Lee Jeno on his back, legs dangling off at weird angles and intoxicated broken words strung into old Korean songs (that not even their grandmothers sang anymore). 

"Lee fucking Jeno," He huffs haughtily, trying to balance themseleves, "remind me to never let you drink ever again."

And he feels mean saying that, because everyone has the right to drink away their sorrows. It's what most humans do, it's what he does, he takes care while it happens. It's what they do for each other, let the other drown and then teach them how to breathe again. It's what best friends are for.

They almost trip over a badly placed pebble and a car speeds by so fast that Donghyuck nearly topples over onto the pavement. 

How ironic, that the two of them are together on Christmas Eve, both broken-hearted and suffering. 

The last Christmas they spent single and together was when they were nineteen.

They get to Jeno's apartment somehow and Donghyuck quickly punches in the code, waiting for the door to open before he remembers that it's been over a year since they hung out at Jeno's instead of his own dorm closer to college. 

The code must have changed. 

"Fuck you, safety concept."

*

The next week turns out to be horrifying.

Two phones in the apartment and both of them keep blowing up with messages and calls from all sorts of people. Christmas wishes, New Year's wishes, advertising wishes...but no wishes from girlfriends that had taken off with simple pitying expressions.

"I'm never thinking of getting married again. I can't handle that shit anymore." Jeno mumbles, his fourth shot of vodka ready to meet his mouth.

"No shit, I'm never dating again, but your situation sucks more," Donghyuck, sober and pretending to be a responsible friend, murmurs back as he wipes the stray alcohol from Jeno's chin. 

They drink and soon their fake excuse of a liquor cabinet is empty. Donghyuck nearly shatters his glass with the force he uses to put it down.

"We're too young 'nyway, we still need to finish college-"

"-pay loans-"

"-get a car-"

"-better job-"

"-we don't need t' get caught up in this shithole yet. We got each other, bros before hoes, amirite?"

"Bros before hoes!" Jeno shouts and then slumps over, his head nestled in the crook of Donghyuck's neck.

Suddenly there are sobs, then full blown tears and both of them are hugging and crying.

*

Jeno's fiancée of two years, a rather nice girl who met Jeno during his second year of college, suddenly didn't feel it anymore. She wanted a different arrangement, more waiting, more chances to go explore and not be chained at the mere age of twenty-four. Her suggestion was to put off the wedding for a few months.

In hindsight, she wasn't wrong. She just wanted to give their relationship more time and experience things outside while at it. At least she was self-aware and saved both herself and Jeno from a horrible fate. 

What Donghyuck doesn't like is that his own relationship ended the same moment that lady left. 

Best friend shit and whatnot. 

Both Donghyuck and Jeno spent a few months together. If there was anything Donghyuck loves about his own best friend, it was the solidarity. (... hypocrisy much?)

They’ve had their ups and downs. Donghyuck had a bad phase, then Jeno had a crisis, but all in all, they’ve been each other’s go to boys. Every stressful night has been spent with a shared blanket and a tub of ice cream in their laps. Pre-exam days have been spent crying and eating notes together. Donghyuck has even gone to the extent of refusing dick appointments to comfort a lonely Jeno. 

Admittedly, they weren’t off to a great start but it worked out somehow. A few common friends, a few disjointed relationships, a few sadistic lecturers and Donghyuck bonded with Jeno.

Donghyuck is grateful that he has a friend who has known him so long. Jeno is a saint for having stuck to him after all the nonsense life has thrown at them (and all the stupidity they’ve created by themselves).

With their calendars freshly emptied, no girlfriends to be dedicated to, new bars located and actual salary increments, they were on top of the world in whatever way possible.

Until Jeno burst into tears one evening and said he'd had enough. 

He wanted to go back home, somewhere he had a life that he had left behind all those years ago. 

They've had this conversation before when they were younger. Jeno, who left behind his hometown to make it work in his mother's homeland. It seems like the man is ready to free every insecurity he had locked away, to undo every step they had taken to build a new life as fellow runaways.

Jeno couldn't live here with all those memories. Some of his best years were spent here in hopes that something amazing will come out of that investment. Even if things had ended for the best, nothing tied him down to Seoul anymore, he could go wherever he wanted.

And so Lee Jeno, with his disaster of a marriage delayed -- and ultimately cancelled -- vanished. 

Donghyuck hasn't heard from him since.

  
  


今

  
  


'A mistake is a mistake, no matter what the context is. There is no remedy, only redemption. Let's work together to make lesser mistakes for our planet.'

Huh, Donghyuck rereads the tweet on his feed. It doesn't make freaking sense. Sure, we must save our planet (Donghyuck himself has a wide variety of jute bags) but he doesn't get the correlation between redemption and green thumbing. Not in a tweet and not when the person who made the tweet has a manga girl making an ahegao on their display pictu- oh. It's probably one of those, an edgy bastard who thinks they're funny. He likes the tweet and moves on.

Now that is a complete change of mood.

The heaviness of the atmosphere lifted when they parked in front of a convenience store about fifteen minutes ago. He didn't throw up, but he did feel uncomfortable. 

As he waits in the car for Jungwoo to come back, the rain starts falling harder. 

It's alright, Jungwoo needs to take a break. It's not easy to break such ugly news to anyone and relive it. He probably feels guilty for dragging Donghyuck to Neo and oh lord, what about all the other preparations? Jungwoo can take as long in the store as he wants. Can even eat fruit rolls in there by himself, Donghyuck won't chastise him and say it's a mistake to consume heaven all alone.

A mistake. He thinks back to the first half of that weird tweet.

Outside, people are scrambling for shelter on the streetside, and many others simply whip out their umbrellas without a single smudge of expression on their faces and keep moving. These must be the sort of poker face people that work for the Illuminati (or maybe they're just tired of living in a city that sees downpour every other month).

Donghyuck has made many mistakes in his life.

He's recently found himself thinking about his first boyfriend -- even been looking for his social media -- to maybe reach out. Maybe figure out what went wrong all those years ago, what's so wrong with him that he hasn't been able to sustain a single serious relationship since then.

(Should he stop using the bird app?)

A part of him wonders if he'd stayed, forgiven Chul and gotten back together, would he have turned into a junkie too? (Donghyuck usually thinks of him by name, because you can't forget that very first special person, but that has also decreased as of late.) Would he be rolling around in fat wads of drug leaves and roots? Or would his old boyfriend see sense and come back to being his soft self? Would he be less prideful, to have forgiven someone? 

There were other significant others too, who left him behind as if he was nothing but a little stepping stone.

But Jeno.

(And isn’t that why this tirade of stupid emotions shot up?)

Jeno had been to him what a brother should be.

There aren’t any other words to expound because they’ve slipped out of the sieve called Donghyuck’s mind. He loved Jeno, truly felt some of the strongest platonic love he has ever fathomed. All tossed away in the name of heartbreak and emptiness.

Could he have done more for him? Was Donghyuck a failure of a friend? Was he so insensitive he couldn’t make his friend feel warm in the place they called home?

Isn’t Donghyuck to blame for every one of his relationships falling apart, platonic or romantic?

 _But they made you feel worthless_ , a voice reasons. 

That's an established fact, and they weren't the only people to make him feel that way. He doesn't remember the last time a significant other or dear friend made him feel like he has some tangible value.

(The dim lights of a secluded bar come to mind, a loud laughter and smoke settling into dreary corners. A warm hand on his thigh-

He shakes his head. Most of those questions are worthless and against his self-made code of conduct. But making out with hot strangers in dangerous cities is okay and valuable all of a sudden, he muses).

Donghyuck doesn't know how to find the answers to any of the weird questions he managed to come up with. And perhaps nobody does, but every fool finds questions in what ifs and then sets out to seek answers no matter how impossible they are to find. 

Lee Donghyuck wants to make peace with being a happy fool.

But today...today reminds him of something that isn't a mistake, but a regret. 

A door clicks open somewhere and the daze breaks.

"Sorry, I couldn't find anything better, they only had clear umbrellas on sale." 

Jungwoo passes over a dry folded umbrella and a bottle of water. Donghyuck nods and mutters a thanks. The thin metal and heavy plastic reminds him of wire-frame glasses. He hopes it'll survive the weather.

"It's perfect, thank you."

"You must have an umbrella in Neo, and never trust weather reports." Jungwoo laughs, throwing his own dripping umbrella (and more water bottles, no polythene -- way to go!) into the backseat and then turns around to place his hands on the wheel. 

"Are you okay now?"

Donghyuck takes a huge sip of water and pauses before replying, "I'm sorry. I didn't want to focus on me...I ju-...It's not easy. I've seen something like this happen to a very close friend of mine before and I just hope that things go well for you. Hang on to things, okay?"

It's as if Jungwoo senses exactly what Donghyuck tries to imply. 

"I will. I don't have any plans of letting my person go, even if I have to wait longer."

They hug each other over the console, quick and short before sitting back in their place.

"Alright then...I'll hold you to your words."

He is graced with the beginnings of a thankful smile. 

Things are soon ignored in favour of bringing back the atmosphere from before the news was broken. It's alright again, Jungwoo rattling off information like he's memorized every hefty guidebook (and he's a native, so everything must hold memories) and Donghyuck just settles back into the passenger seat.

"Now you've seen most of the local markets now, the street where Hotpot is located is like a navigation center," Jungwoo says, starting the engine.

"Four blocks down right," He continues, "you see the downtown marketplace, another four blocks and you'll find a few of the most popular cafés...it's a four block mantra. Start from block two all the way east, and every four blocks you'll find something that's important enough to be marked on a map. There's a river that cuts in between but it's nothing to worry about."

Donghyuck hums. It's like the pattern he follows on Seoul's subway, every few stops from his apartment, there's something exciting.

Jungwoo falls silent as they finally start moving, making it through narrow congested streets. The silence doesn’t last long, the man has an offer.

"While you’re here already...I know you don’t have a source of income, and it doesn’t make sense for me to treat you like a sugar daddy-" Donghyuck splutters upon hearing this but Jungwoo continues without bother.

"-so how do you feel about working smaller jobs?"

He lets out a faint laugh, unsure where this is headed. It’s true that he doesn’t have anywhere to go immediately. He’ll have to go back to Seoul, set up private services and see if anyone from his old client database wants to hire him. Which will take about two months. So yes, he really did count on Jungwoo’s stuffy pockets for those two months of expenses. Although no wedding means no work which means Donghyuck’s wallet empties faster than it ever should. He’s fucked.

"I think it depends on where I work and who I work with...I’m not taking nude shots though, makes for easy arrest." 

"Is it okay if it’s with really close friends of mine?" The car slows down by a bend, "I’m vouching for you, so my name is literally on your visa. There can’t be a person safer than me here -- for you that is -- and we can process another person into the thing, only if you’re okay with it."

"Can I meet them first? See what work they have for me?"

"Definitely. Then there's someplace I must take you." 

Donghyuck closes his eyes for a minute as they change direction.

He feels like he's hovering over mossy ground. The rhythmless beating of raindrops, the low rumbling of their car engine, finally the feel of an umbrella in his arms...he exhales heavily, taking a second to recalibrate himself. 

Neo feels as much of a stranger as ever.

But here, seated in a small car in a corner of the city that floods with human bodies and smells of spices scattered over steaming asphalt, he feels anticipation rush through his blood. (He shouldn't, it's wrong. Especially because Jungwoo is going through a tough time and indirectly it puts Donghyuck in jeopardy, but he does.)

There's a tingling in his ears that makes him regret wallowing in what ifs. _No point in thinking of alternatives_. There's a whole present right here, right in front of him. A present where a woman runs on the pavement in office heels, a boy walks at the pace of a snail with hair covering his eyes and he, who simply sits with his knuckles tight.

He is who he is, shaped by how he's handled everything that's happened to him, even if he has always been a bit of an idiot and extra dramatic.

This almost feels like he’s unlocked a game quest.

He smiles hesitantly as they turn the corner and the road emphatically shimmers.

Something big is about to happen.

Very soon.

  
  


今

  
  


_'I need a favour.'_

The words ring in Mark's head.

Jaemin has a way of saying so many things in such little words it leaves people baffled. Yet, he left Mark something with semblance to an explanation.

"There will soon come a time when I'll need your help," The man had said, eyes set and fingernails tapping, "and I'll need you to _not say no_ when that moment arrives."

Mark had stopped eating then, paying attention to the words.

"I hope it doesn't, I hope that situation never arises...but the die is cast, Mark, something is happening and I'll tell you everything soon enough. Trust me."

Soon enough. _Trust me_. 

Those words elicit a bunch of complex emotions and he isn't equipped to handle them, has never been. His internal workings may be a mystery lost to the outer universe but they still seem to have signalling pathways connected to his consciousness.

It's been a few hours since, and Mark is in his room, with a new layer of dye on his head, playing a pacman reboot he programmed from scratch during summer vacation. 

He feels his way across the keyboard, reminiscing the way little nudges and corners feel against his skin. 

There are calluses along the edges of his thin fingers -- smooth but hard -- often mistaken to be built on the sharpness of string instruments. As a violin instructor, it's the story he sells. Years of ruthless practice have shaped his hands, ordinary to common sight but not to those who know what they mean. 

The chance to pitch in his coding or writing escapades just never shows up. There's barely any opportunity to discuss how the tips of his fingertips were often scrubbed clean of fingerprints because he typed for hours a day after string practice.

Click-click-click. His pacman narrowly evades a predator.

Those are easy days to recall, light footsteps intoxicated with a vague sense of self-created importance.

Mark decides it's time to distract himself. He needs to wash the dye off and stop looking like a honeybee. (Though he can completely go in for professionally done pale highlights, that might even look nice.)

His students would happily propagate a 'Bee Mark' agenda with all the bee related incidents that keep happening around him. There's been three separate instances where honeybees flew into their practice hall and nearly stung him.

He's going to see his students after a month and a half of vacation today, and while they can be real menaces at times, the kids aren't all bad. Some of them were even nice enough to message him and ask how he's doing during the break. Perhaps he could do something interesting today.

Click-click-click. His pacman is about to finish the last line of dots-

Before he can finish collecting all the treats on screen, he gets eaten and the game displays a haphazard old-font 'game over'. 

*

If Mark leaves now, he calculates, he'll have exactly fifteen minutes to walk to his car, five minutes to drive out, and then another twenty minutes on the road before he'll be in front of the theatre doors. 

Good. 

This means he's running on time today.

As always however, he rushes back the moment he realises he doesn't have his car keys. It takes him ten minutes to find them, which is a bad deficit because now he'll only be five minutes early before the lesson is supposed to start.

Back when there were more people (he seems to be thinking about that a lot, should he arrange a big video call?) there used to be...a system. Twelve hooks for keys, twelve bowls for small tidbits, twelve spots for most worn shoes right by the entrance...you get the idea. It was nice because everybody had enough trust to leave their things lying around and running into each other often meant exchange of information. 

Mark isn't one for surveillance or following rules, but he likes order. He likes when his things aren't touched or moved around, when everything is bound to be found exactly when required. Those are nice things, small moments of happiness and relief in a hectic life. 

Ever since Taeyong shifted out last year, things went to shit. 

And Mark desperately knows he should never blame someone else for anything that he does himself...but this one's on Taeyong for taking away all sense of organization from the house with him.

At last he skids over to the main door and rushes to put on his shoes again when he hears it. The distinct sound that new wheels make as they roll over marble.

In essence, Mark hears Taeil behind him before he can see the man.

"Mark! Where are you headed?" 

Moon Taeil moves over to him. He looks neat and clean, in a crisp pink shirt that contrasts with his fiery hair and steel grey trousers. There's something that makes him look a little nicer but Mark can't put a finger on it. 

The man recently got himself a better upgrade of his previous wheelchair and has been rolling around the entire place because of how excited yet comfortable it makes him ("Now I can even be Spider-Man, climbing up walls and all that stuff," Then he had proceeded to fake an evil laugh) with firmer padding for his back, all in a decent black colour and Mark throws him a thumbs up. 

"Good afternoon hyung, I have to supervise the strings club today, where are you headed?"

"The lab, and then I've got a date. You won't believe me but I'm hiding my date clothes in a pocket right here," He vaguely gestures to his bottom, "they'll never know what hit 'em."

"That's cute, just don't crumple them, wrinkles are not okay on dates."

"You say that as if you've actually been on a date, when was the last time you saw someone for the sole reason of being romantic and liked it?"

Yesterday night, Mark's brain unhelpfully supplies, but he doesn't want to tell Taeil yet. His ears go pink. Maybe later when they're having tea together. 

"See, you have to think so hard." the elder continues, pulling his shoes on. 

"It's okay, it's not a priority." Ah, what big lies. The universe will bite him for uttering this lie.

"You sure you don't want me to set you up on a blind date again? The previous one wasn't that bad, he was just into body painting-"

"With crushed fruit-"

"-and, okay maybe not great, but still."

"You and Jungwoo are committed to scarring me. I told him too, and I'm telling you now, no more blind dates." 

"Hah, you just blame us now because we’re still at it. Remember Renjun trying to set you up with every single boy on the planet?"

Mark almost shivers in disgust at his younger self being pushed around by Huang Renjun and his idiosyncrasies. 

"Do not remind me hyung. I’m so glad he’s away, he should go on more vacations, should probably get married every year."

Taeil sighs, reaching out a hand to pat Mark's head. The younger bends and allows Taeil to rub at his scalp lightly. 

"Alright, but you're telling me why you blushed earlier." Wait, what? "Also, I think you're late."

Fuck, he glances at his wristwatch, he'll never reach in time (unless at least three different speeding laws are broken in the next twenty minutes).

"You're paying bail and good luck, hyung," Mark quickly drops a kiss on Taeil's cheek before dashing away like the wind.

  
  


今

  
  


There are very few people Na Jaemin relies on, simply because there are even fewer who can actually stand by his side without asking uncomfortable questions.

Nuko paws at his phone, silent and cold. 

She doesn't even stop to mewl, just rolls around on her stomach and pokes the screen. It lights up, but quickly fades to black again, dismissing all her efforts. 

Renjun won't fucking pick up his calls -- or anyone's -- but still manages to post honeymoon pictures on his Instagram and it irks the shit out of Jaemin. He has good control, which is why his phone is in his cat's lithe arms and not in pieces on the floor.

He needs legal advice and his only reliable friend is being not-so-reliable.

He would crash their vacation if he didn't like Jeno's eye smile so much, and if he didn't have problems of his own to address in Neo.

This leaves him with his bleakest options.

Going in blind with whatever little he knows of the law, and asking for help. Damn it, the universe knows he hates doing both of those. 

On his short list of people he can rely on is a name he hasn't disturbed in two years. 

Mark. 

Mark doesn't know what Jaemin has become, he doesn't know that the simple drug business that ran out of their basement grew into a cold-blooded black market that scares even those who are veterans of the work.

Jaemin doesn't fear crimson dripping off his fingertips, he fears a single drop of stray blood splattering onto a clean person. He fears only one thing and it's tarnishing innocence.

He also doesn't want to openly admit that the sorts of mangling and death have long lost whatever effect they had on a younger version of himself. This is what his choices have led him to, and this is the one moral he will always uphold, to take responsibility for his actions.

Although this time, it seems like he has no choice.

There's something upsetting the balance of Neo.

Nobody has ever tried overpowering him or his men in their territory. And it happened just last night, where he was photographed and ended with two bodies in his hands.

There must be some reason why he feels the air shift, as if it is trying to escape whatever horrors the city is yet to see. It's not just him, even Nuko has been silently trailing about the house for a few days, refusing to meow too loudly.

On papers, Jaemin is known to be deceased in the very accident he caused. He never thought to have someone give him a rundown on what it feels like to stand above a tombstone with your own name engraved in cursive on it. He also doesn't know how to deal with threats that don't know of his existence. 

A shiver crawls down his spine. 

If he drags in more people, there will be more dead weight to pull him down. (Like the other graves that surround his own. Like the one Jisung visits every month.)

And Mark...he is more like Jaemin than he knows. One wrong judgement and he will spiral down from the life he has worked so hard to build, away from anything dirty. 

But for all that he often boasts about, there are things Jaemin can't manage himself. He can't take on the monsters let loose in the sewers of Neo by himself, can't make sure no more of his men end up with slit throats and bullet holes in their heads. 

Sacrifices, however, he has made many.

And just one more -- in the shape of a stumbling man with innocence drenched in his bones -- can be negotiated. He will always feel lesser for doing this, but there are doubts in his head that need to be settled immediately. 

There must be only one necessary evil and this is his territory. The people here need fear only one name, and it's his.

It's well known that dead men tell no tales, but Na Jaemin is already plotting a complex narrative in his head.

  
  


昔

  
  


Huang Renjun might be younger than Mark but he's always had more game. 

It's simply logical, if you put it one way, Renjun is Renjun, and Mark is just that, Mark.

Renjun has beautiful white hair, he has the grace of a dancer and is the topper of their year. He also always has a newspaper roll ready to whack the back of Mark's head.

"Today is the day Lee, you go out there and get laid."

Mark splutters, his eyeshadow brush falling out of his grip. Ah, waste of product.

"No, I'll talk to them first...I have cue cards, and then see if I like them enough to borrow body heat from them." He says, picking up the brush and cleaning it.

Renjun sits on the bed behind him, stretching like a tired cat.

"Whatever you do, don't let them see the cards, it'll ruin any chances you'd otherwise have."

"Yes sir, got that. Anything else?"

"Please don't be clumsy, and get drunk please, you're a confident drunk aren't you?"

The poor makeup brush finds itself flying and striking Renjun smack in the middle of his forehead. 

*

"This one has to make some difference, I can't handle him anymore Irene, he's been cribbing about body heat and ways to harness it for days," Renjun says one day as he's dusting the books in Irene's office. 

Internships during senior year often take a toll and to even get a spot under Irene was hell. It doesn't matter that she's related to Mark, the woman remained unyielding to not have Renjun interning till he had graduated. 

It took tooth and nail to fight for the position at one of Neo's best independent law offices. 

Yet here he is, after finishing his degree a year earlier, feather duster in his hand and woollen rug under his butt -- all while complaining about one of his closest friends.

Way to go, at this rate if he doesn't reach law school, he will murder Mark with his own two hands.

"Give him time, he'll settle for someone on his own. Mark's always been a picky child, people are no different." 

Irene peruses the pages of an old document, but quickly loses interest upon the welcome discussion about her brother-in-law. 

Renjun's internal professional struggle goes completely unnoticed.

"Does he understand that? No."

"Why don't you boys sit him down and explain that it's okay to go solo. Look at me, I'm a single mother of three and a half, it's okay to not invest energy in places that don't need it right now."

Renjun turns around to look at her, mouth agape and eyes deadpan.

"...Why do you only say all the good stuff when he's not here? And what do you mean by three and a half?"

"It's probably _because_ he's not here." She says, flicking through fresher white pages, "I'm hard-wired to empathize with him whenever I see his cute face."

"You didn't answer my other question."

"Jisung, Mark, you -- and Jaemin leeches life energy from you, so half."

"Don't let him hear that, I don't know what sins I committed to have him as my best friend. He's so annoying. Both of them are..."

Renjun goes back to grumbling and pulling out consecutively thicker books on custodial law before brushing off the now dirty duster. Irene looks on with a knowing glint in her eyes.

*

If anybody asks Irene (and nobody does) she has a... hypothesis. 

It's still incomplete because she doesn't know everything well enough, but she has an idea of things as they are and knows where the ultimate conclusion is headed.

It almost feels like she's coming up with a character study for one of her clients, trying to prove they were innocent alright. She doesn't do this often, witnesses are usually enough and it's all about giving them direction. This on the other hand, is personal.

As cold and calculated as Renjun appears to be, he can be emotionally charged and even worry his brains out over the well-being of his friends.

Irene doesn't say it, but she knows why Mark goes out to see people despite hating the whole set-up. He just wants someone who will put in the effort to be close to him and he appreciates the courage it takes to meet someone new.

(And he confided in her once, after dinner as he helped Jisung with homework, that refusing to meet someone felt like saying no to the person that set it up -- who were usually his friends. That's one set of relationships he can't disturb, and any will to refuse simply vanishes.)

Sometimes, everything reminds her of her husband. 

If he were still around, he would laugh it off and say it's okay, to let Mark experience whatever he chooses to. 

She closes the file she's been looking at for the past hour and sits back, staring blankly at the door. 

The reason why Renjun worries so much is pretty obvious.

He's a smart one, has always been a step ahead and has also been humble. Irene loves mentoring him and walking him through case studies. He also understands that each person is different, his own family is proof of that. 

But this is where he has a weak spot.

There are certain kinds of people he can't handle, simply because their actions are beyond visible calculations.

(And this is where everything gets complicated.)

If there's something Renjun can't completely grasp about the boy, it's that he _believes_ Mark doesn't always behave predictably. 

She remembers clearly a time when they were in high school, acquainted but not close. It was a simple thing, something that happens between any group of friends. 

Mark has never liked attending big social events and Renjun understood it to be a pattern, not bothering to ask him to an event once. Mark showed up simply because he wasn't asked, and that was too petty a reason for someone who was often more understanding and mature. 

It's one of those points where their smooth sailing friendship hit a little rock.

She has an inkling that Mark's reason was incomplete. That the _explanation_ was incomplete. 

The boy minces words, assumes that the subtext, context -- and all kinds of other text -- will be understood. 

(She herself has struggled while raising Mark for that very reason.)

It became something Renjun dismissed as a trivial matter back then, and started getting confused within the possibility that Mark really doesn't have a pattern. 

But if he had been careful enough to look, it might actually _fit_ into Mark's normal ways. If nobody asked him, he probably assumed it wasn't going to be a big event and took his chances to go find something entertaining. 

It backfired on poor Mark, definitely in more ways than one.

This is also where it becomes important to differentiate between inherently similar people.

Renjun is Na Jaemin's best friend, other half, missing puzzle piece, and that boy has a modus operandi for how to breathe. 

What gives Renjun any clear understanding of Mark is the fact that Jaemin and Mark are two clothes stitched out of the same kind of fabric. Except one is a fancy collared shirt and the other is comfortable pyjama pants. Naturally, they're not going to behave similarly even if they feel the same.

They're all friends, looking out for each other, but missing certain things here and there. And that's okay. She doesn't need to interfere, it's not an investigation.

This is an opportunity that opened up by chance. 

Something to help a friend understand another friend, and something to help sharpen up her mentee's weakest point.

Irene closes her eyes, ready to get some quick rest. The boys will all grow with time, slowly, and perhaps reach an understanding someday that all their wishes may be different but they're unknowingly treading the same path.

Maybe Mark will find someone who can understand his words too.

Someone who will put in the effort to connect with him the way she has, or someone who will fit in naturally like rivers at a delta.

Because with the way things are going right now, (and she is scared to admit this) Mark will end up alone. She can see it happen, him taking up a mundane job to feel satisfied and have maybe just one friend somewhere. Irene doesn't want that to happen, not when she has worked so hard to give him the semblance of as normal a childhood as she could.

(In the worst case, Mark will be forced to become a shell of himself, sacrificed in the wake of greater events.)

Ah kids, she sighs, at least Jisung doesn't have too much drama at school.

Suddenly, the door bangs open, and there stands Mark Lee, drenched from head to toe when it isn't even raining outside. 

"Where's Huang? I hate this and I'm never doing this again -- mark my words -- or I'll change my name."

"I'll have the papers ready by tomorrow, how do you feel about 'Mario Lee'?"

Oh, to be an overthinking mother.

  
  


今

  
  


Love songs. That's all there is on the radio. 

Mark sneers, tuning into different channels only to find more jingles singing of love and hearts broken to never mend. 

It's irritating now. It's all anybody talks about, it's become all he can think of and it's frustrating. There is much more to life than having a warm hand squeezing his own.

Now he just feels sad.

It wasn't supposed to be one of those days -- days when he wraps himself in a thick blanket and listens to Lana del Rey while daydreaming of all the ways his love would end -- but it's becoming one. 

This isn't him.

This isn't Mark Lee.

He seems to be becoming something entirely different, too emotional and confused.

Twenty-seven years. 

When he was eighteen, he knew that things can wait. There exists much greater than a kiss and that's all he chased. But he's fucking twenty-seven. 

Maybe the issue isn't that he hasn't found someone to bed every night. 

It's the fact that all those greater things that could be reached were abandoned when he was mere centimetres away from touching them.

What excellence did he achieve when he left behind the want for human company...nothing, nothing at all- 

No, he isn't going to go there, he's already thought too much for a day. He needs peace, something to make him feel light, a little happy. 

The station suddenly changes to a news bulletin and a deep voice fills the car.

"...This is to inform our residents that there has been an unidentified body discovered up north right by the banks of the Acheron..."

Funny how fate works, Mark is driving on the bridge right over the humming waters of the river -- lame, he knows, but whoever named the city Neo must be to blame for naming their river Acheron -- and there's police barricades over the banks that are visible. 

He wonders if it's for the reason they gave on the radio.

"...since the waters have been unsteady lately and a loss of life has been reported, we request our citizens to be careful about their night-time wanderings. Our condolences to the..."

Night-time wanderings remind him of a boy, sweaty and paling. A bus that takes people away from whatever they want to leave behind, a neon orange hoodie and a slick tongue around his own.

Mark's ears go pink for the hundredth time that day.

He wonders how long sweet Donghyuck is going to be around, and if he'll ever run into him again. If he does, he owes him an apology, if he doesn't, he'll think of the night as an unattainable dream.

He shifts gears, he needs to be faster.

*

Mark rushes into the theatre where the club has been allotted space for practice, hair windswept and glasses askew. 

His job is to get the strings group ready for regionals by the end of this term and give them a head start on preparing for nationals. (Mark himself had been part of the nationals team back in high school, and they'd lost third place by one point.)

The theatre is a nice place, warm and homely with massive maroon curtains all over the place. Their practice hall is small but it's the one where he first saw a live recital and it holds infinite meaning for him to be teaching there. 

Younger hearts carry unbound aspirations and dealing with failure can often be difficult. 

He doesn't know these students very well, they'd only been with him for a week before summer vacation began. The children he does know -- the high school seniors -- are not here today. 

Nevertheless, they're alright, he thinks.

They have a spark to their eyes and a willingness to hold onto their instruments like their life depends on it.

Mark settles down on the piano stool, arranging the sheets for accompaniment today. From the corner of his eyes, he can see the twenty odd children shuffling about.

(Aren't they ever suffocated? Their young bodies stuffed into pristine silk shirts and bows thrust into the faltering hands? 

They must be fearless.)

"Alright everyone, I'm sorry I'm late, some stuff happened. How was your summer break?" 

A chorus of 'alright's and 'not bad's breaks out and Mark smiles. He hasn't had a fantastic break either, he can relate.

A few of the children fall into detailed narrations of how uneventful the season was. Most of them complain about the weather but then again, weather in Neo has never been predictable. "More like monsoon vacations," a short boy grumbles and light laughter follows. 

"I assume you've practiced at home -- or wherever you were -- and that we can quickly catch up where we left off last term."

He receives a yes in return. Chairs are dragged across the wooden floor of the stage and everybody gets into formation. Just as Mark is about to ask them to warm up, someone speaks up.

"Mr. Lee! Lyn isn't here yet."

It's been twenty minutes past time. If anything, Mark doesn't remember being told if anyone in the group was tardy when the school handed him the duty. He looks past the front row of students and finds an empty chair between two dark skinned girls. 

If memory serves him right, there should be a tall thin boy with large glasses over there. He was a freshman too, barely fifteen and shy. He's a sweet boy, struggling with his sexuality and he'd even spoken to Mark on more than a few occasions, asking what it was like to be gay. 

"Should we wait for him?"

"It's already late, I don't think he's gonna show up today."

"Did you guys message him? I'll put something in the group..." Mark mumbles as he turns over his phone and quickly navigates to their group chat. He types in a message, asking if Lyn is alright, then keeps his phone on top of the piano. 

The kid might be unwell or out of town. Sometimes they forget to inform the teacher and that's okay. Mark's done that too often during his time as a student to feel offended. 

"He's not picking up his phone Mr. Lee, is he sick or something?"

A girl turns away, "I saw him yesterday. By the river market. Maybe he got drenched in the rain?" 

"Possible."

Mark's gut tightens all of a sudden. There's an inkling there that says he knows what happened but there's not enough information to link everything. He's just being paranoid. (Not everybody he gets along with has to have a bad fate.)

"He'll call back. We're already late today, so let's start with warm ups. Do you guys wanna do the scale?" 

He's met with groans.

  
  


今

  
  


Donghyuck is completely calm and has apologised every five minutes by the time Jungwoo pulls up in a spacious parking lot. Right before them stands a huge white building that looks like it was built a few good centuries ago. It's pretty, with all the long pillars, billowing banners and massive stairs upfront. 

He wishes he knew enough about architecture to put a name onto the structures.

Neo is a wild mix and match of all kinds of buildings. All kinds of things, rather. Jungwoo just laughed it off when Donghyuck mentioned it, "It's what Neo is, a big cultural shock."

As they leave the car, the sun starts to vanish from view, setting beyond the dark shadows of unbothered skyscrapers. 

Donghyuck hugs his jacket closer.

Jungwoo looks okay. His eyes aren't red anymore and his skin has regained colour. He's a pretty man, Donghyuck admits, but he's also really confusing. Maybe his own mild panic diffused the situation? But it shouldn't. The whole setting is so wrong it makes his stomach crawl. 

(Isn't it natural to be more upset about a postponed wedding? Or is Donghyuck projecting? Is that what this is?)

As they walk up the marble staircase, Donghyuck settles with the explanation that Jungwoo has had enough time to accept the possible outcomes of a delayed marriage and is much more optimistic than Donghyuck's brain allows. 

Which is alright. 

Not everyone has the same story.

As they enter, Donghyuck sees an enamel plaque standing on an easel. 

'Neo Symphonic Theatre, est. 1945'

"They do everything here-" Jungwoo pipes in, noticing the younger's eyes lingering on the name plaque, "- music, drama, dance, art exhibitions, everything on the list. But it's not the biggest theatre around, just the friendliest one." 

"Friendliest?" Donghyuck raises his eyebrows.

"Yeah, they lend the place out to institutions for practice. In fact, that's why I thought of this place." 

Donghyuck silently follows the older through a massive reception gallery. There's only large cream sofas and green houseplants dotting the floor. 

"My friend's online magazine and blog are gathering pictures of the art scene in Neo. He's a bit eccentric, but he does weird popular things." 

"Mhm, sounds interesting. Is this on a small scale?"

"Kind of?" Jungwoo frowns, "He earns fairly well and it's mostly, what does he call it, 'philanthropic to art', crazy, but he's not good with a camera and he's willing to let a good photographer take all the earnings." 

They've taken a turn and now all Donghyuck sees are massive paintings and glazed wooden doors.

"So I'll be tagging along and taking pictures of things he wants?"

"Yep, you're quick."

Donghyuck bit his lip.

"I've done this before, but I've never met someone ready to give away everything they're earning from the gig. Usually it's difficult to get decent pay."

"He's a madman. I have a feeling you'll get along with him. Just don't get overwhelmed, and ask him questions if he's not being clear."

"...okay? Are you sur-"

They reach a huge door, open to give view into a lively hall. There's a slight incline along the dark audience chairs and Jungwoo hops down before Donghyuck could ask anything. 

On the stage, a handful of people are packing up and there are others who are already headed up the stairs. They look young, like they're school children. As they pass by him, he gives them a half-smile and receives nods in turn. 

"Mark Bee!" 

Mark? It's a common name, why's he thinking so hard- "Why'd you not stick to the honeybee hair?" Jungwoo whines at the top of his lungs, tackling a lean man about the same height as Donghyuck. He sees dark hair and flailing arms but the rest is obscured by Jungwoo. 

"Letgo letgo, let go of me-"

Upon hearing the voice Donghyuck pauses mid-step. He's heard the man very recently. Very closely. 

Jungwoo wobbles around and turns, a scrunched up face with large round glasses coming into view. The struggling man's mouth falls open as they make eye contact -- very round sparkly eyes, just like last night.

Recognition dawns upon both of them and holy fucking hell this is fast-

If Donghyuck's life had been on train tracks so far, flat and slow with rhythmic chugging, there had been a sudden change because now he's no longer in a soft compartment with a sleeping bunk. He's in the miniscule space of a roller-coaster cart and the tracks are all the way up in the air forming disastrous loops. Also, there's no safety belt.

"Donghyuck! This is Mark Lee, my best friend, and Mark, this is Lee Donghyuck, my wedding friend!"

Oh he knows. He knows how Mark takes his weird raspberry drinks, wears glitter on his cheekbones and likes more lip in his kisses than tongue.

(It doesn't help that he looks hotter with dark hair even if his face resembles a blabbering duck's.

The universe really has it out for Donghyuck.)

*


	5. (五) wherever far away, another place we saw in our dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (一) + (二) + (三) + (四) + (五) = (Act 1 / 第一幕)
> 
> // 
> 
> Slow burn who?  
> This part is extremely dialogue heavy, you've been alerted.  
> This also concludes what I would have liked to be the actual first chapter. 
> 
> [ twitter mood thread ](https://twitter.com/damn_lemonade/status/1248165890148798464?s=20) \+ [ padlet. ](https://padlet.com/rosellatama/downtowndonghyuck)
> 
> 昔 - Past  
> 今 - Present
> 
> special thanks to Addy (@sheminion) <3

昔

  
  


The Neo City map that came stuck at the back of Donghyuck's guidebook is pretty massive. He decides to spare it one final glance before it is lost to the depths of his luggage forever. 

There is a dense pattern of important buildings on the top; there curves a bank of a river that barely crosses city borders. 

Below that is something that looks like it belongs to a children's colouring book -- a giant maze labelled ‘10th & 11th Block’. There are mostly restaurants and pubs marked in the area. Donghyuck, as simple as he is, assumes it’s going to be a nightlife area, something sparkling like Shinjuku or Itaewon.

The portion below that is ‘Downtown’, painting the perfect image of a residential area. Schools, universities, housing complexes, parks and everything else that screams ‘your mum would like this’ seems to be situated here.

Perhaps it was the simplicity of this map that gave him the confidence to step foot past the hotel lobby. 

It has been two days since he arrived in Neo. 

He has talked to Jungwoo, who even came to visit him a while ago, and slept off the severe jet lag (unlike anything he has experienced before). The only thing left is for him to see the city first-hand and to buy some snacks. If this were any of his other trips, like the ones he has undertaken in the past two years, he would have already gone around the vicinity and stocked whatever interesting local dish he could find.

He loves wandering most when he has a warm hand in his own or the sound of bubbling laughter ringing in his ears. It is no secret that Donghyuck loves people -- loves being surrounded by miracles that have the gift of breathing life into concepts. The sheer fact that there exist beings able to converse and think in a unique way thrills him. 

There is no dearth of life in Neo. 

In fact, it seems to be the opposite. Every single person he has seen so far looks like an intricate oil painting. Each stranger on the street has dreams. They have aspirations, likes and dislikes. This realisation hits at weird times -- sometimes completely unnecessary -- and then fades away when his own life brings about unexpected happenings. But it doesn't seem to work that way in Neo.

He can feel it vibe through him. The thought that each face hides another hundred faces grips him with ice-cold fingers and the sensation lingers like a burn. 

Donghyuck counts to ten, slow, with a shiver hiding in every breath. 

He can do this. He can be here. There is no reason to be unnerved.

Shuffling about the pavement and pulling up the hood of his neon sweatshirt, he looks up at the sky. The only thing that remains constant. (Donghyuck knows he should be his own firm constant first, but he changes as every person does. He doesn't yet know if it is for good or for bad, but it is what it is.)

The sun gradually hides behind shimmering glass walls up in the sky and everything turns a pretty tint of lilac. Familiarity strikes him as he realises it is the same lilac as the dress his sister wears by the seashore. It is the same colour he smiles upon when little flowers grow in unexpected concrete pockets. Faint pink yet fiery clouds fill the crevices of Donghyuck’s heart with an ache -- to find art where it may not be otherwise found.

Maybe the people of Neo unsettle him because he doesn't understand their habitat. He isn't sure just yet. He only wishes to photograph them into physical pieces of memory. (If precious pastel colours can grace this grey cityscape, then he can carry the hope that everything will turn out fine).

So he walks, a shaky spring to his step, phone in hand and a camera slung around his neck. 

Onto the next adventure.

  
  


今

  
  


Two things happen when Mark Lee walks up the sloping staircase and extends a hand with a shy smile. 

First, Donghyuck ascertains that if luck were a man -- if it had a physical embodiment -- he would pin it down and shoot it in the head (realistically, he hasn't ever held a gun, but if the media has been getting their facts right all along, he'll figure it out somehow). He's been a little too unlucky as of late and that doesn't sit well with him. 

Convention says bubbles that don't ever pop don't exist. They're called balls because a bubble is destined to burst and lately Donghyuck's life has been like the surface of a soap film that is stretched into shapes unknown to man, unafraid and unruly. The ground beneath his feet will vanish soon. The tension is too strong not to. 

"Hi," Mark breathes out and Donghyuck takes his hand hesitantly. It's too cold.

Cold like the gusts of wind that sprint through Neo at sundown, wetting his shoulders and sending shivers wracking through his body. 

(And Donghyuck will never admit this, but there's a little spark- tiny rush of heat where their skin meets.)

"Hey, I'm Lee Donghyuck," he blinks, letting reality settle in. 

"I know," Mark whispers, the apples of his cheeks tinting pink as he tilts his head. Their hands remain connected loosely, neither moving to draw back. 

Jungwoo sighs heavily somewhere to their right, mumbling he has an important phone call to make. The general development, as seems to be the case often, is that Jungwoo won't be back for a while. His face is set into a small frown and Donghyuck wonders if the universe will ever let his gentle soul have a few consecutive moments of happiness. 

"I'm sorry. For everything that happened last night," Mark averts his eyes as soon as the younger turns back to face him, "I didn't mean to leave you stranded, but I wasn't thinking straight,"

"I don't know to be honest," Donghyuck can't hide the tinge of bitterness that seeps into his words and Mark flinches, "but I do remember you telling me to get some sleep. Not a nice impression to leave especially on strangers you were supposed to share a bed with-" 

"I didn't mean to lead you on," Mark clarifies, the pads of his fingers rub along Donghyuck's knuckles. 

"I'm shy but that was a pretty shit thing to do, especially since I don't even know you. Sorry for leaving you like that."

"It's okay,"

"I should have been more careful about leaving you unattended in a new city too. I'll take care from now on."

"Hey, as long as you know, I accept your apology," it's surprising how gently the words roll. 

The irritation of being rejected from earlier this morning simmers away with every heartfelt word that leaves Mark's mouth. He looks at his shoes. Now all he feels is fatigue. 

There's an ache brewing in his legs and a slight ringing in his ears. He's had a panic attack just remembering his friend (fueled by days of unease, all courtesy of Neo and its ability to shake him to the core). It would also be an understatement to say he is now privy to a lot of information he didn't want to know.

Donghyuck blinks. He needs to make it back to his room to collapse and sleep well into another day.

He raises his head to look at Mark and finds big irises staring back into his.

Colour rises to high cheekbones once again (Donghyuck takes notes of how easily Mark blushes) and if he couldn't practically hear the gears of Mark's brain whirring stressfully, he would've continued to speak. Mark plays with the hem of his cardigan with his free hand and Donghyuck belatedly wonders if the other has realised they're still holding hands.

The sliver of a tongue pokes out and wets Mark's lower lip. It's super effective; Donghyuck stands distracted.

For a fleeting second, he's still on a bus, out of breath, and then he's at a bar counter with a supple touch trailing up his thigh, hidden away from the claws of whatever predator wants to tear into his flesh. 

( _There is no predator_ , he reminds himself softly, _there is nothing to fear_.)

Donghyuck shakes his head, his vision a little hazy.

"Thank you," Mark says, his grip on Donghyuck's fingers pulsing lightly, "Now that we've run into each other again though, will you give me a chance to rectify that bad first impression?"

Cute. Mark is cute.

He glows in the well-lit hall, dressed neatly and smiling a sweet little smile. 

Donghyuck is supposed to be pissed and asking Mark to sell his kidney to fund an airplane ticket but all his anger had honestly vanished the moment Mark tilted his head and greeted him. He's managed to surprise himself too. Is it even healthy to feel this way about someone who left with only the taste of their tongue lingering down your throat? 

Perhaps the laws of attraction are different ballgame after all. 

"You can take me out to coffee and we'll see what cards you have up your sleeve Lee," he says, appraising Mark. It comes out as surprisingly jovial. 

The only things that look different are the hair -- an obviously impermanent black that will start to fade away after a few washes -- and the lack of glitter on his face. He kind of misses the little chunks of sparkle quivering every time Mark's eyelashes would dust upon his cheekbones.

"I can take you out to dinner?" Donghyuck is caught off guard at the suggestion. 

Donghyuck swears upon his roots -- upon sun-kissed islands and watercolour clouds -- that he has never felt such a profound need to connect with anybody he has shared a night with. He's had many beautiful people tangle with him in bed-sheets he doesn't own, but never has anyone caught his eye the way Mark has.

Having dinner with him (a date, wouldn't that just be a date?) would be a nice way to start afresh. He wants to feel more of Mark's subtle gentleness and maybe feel hungry wet lips against his own once more.

But he is tired and stressed, "Can we make that tomorrow?"

"Definitely," Mark squeezes his hand tightly.

He seems to notice that they're touching in that moment and quickly pulls his hand away. Donghyuck misses it already. 

"We can be friends. I feel it, we can make it work," the younger of the two extends a pinky and wiggles it right in front of Mark's face, who goes cross-eyed and leans back. 

"Sure, friends."

Mark flashes him a quick victory sign then links his own little finger to do a mini handshake (ah, how Donghyuck's insides pause in confusion then melt. Real romance is like refrozen ice-cream, he guesses). As they step a little closer -- half a step but closer nonetheless, as if being pulled by each other's gravity -- Donghyuck trips over thin air as a sudden sharp pain pierces his head.

Strong hands come to steady him, fingers digging into his arms. Mark's eyes are wide and round as worry is written over his face.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just a little woozy," Donghyuck answers, suddenly feeling more warmth than he did a few moments ago. The pain vanishes as soon as it comes.

He stumbled closer to Mark than he first noticed. Their faces are close enough to hear each other breathe if they strained enough. Mark's glasses are stained with what look like fingerprints from this close. 

"Have you eaten? Water? Did you take some medicine maybe?"

Does Mark always randomly worry over strangers this much or does Donghyuck's proximity affect him the same way?

"Yeah, I've been feeling a little off all day, but it's fine." 

He gets no reply except for the hands that trace down his arms and stop at his wrists.

"Can you make me a promise, before everything else?" Donghyuck whispers. 

There may be no one else to overhear, but the walls have ears. There's only so much Donghyuck can take and he's not going to let the opportunity slip. 

"Can we forget last night happened?" 

Of course there's no way Donghyuck is going to forget last night. He still has pictures of an unprecedented murder saved in his phone. The other doesn't need to know that.

Mark's breathing stills.

Donghyuck narrows his eyes as he leans closer, bringing up a hand to run his fingers through the hair that falls over Mark's glasses, "It will just be a little favour for me." 

He desperately wants to leave no traces of his movements if there is even the slimmest chance that he was seen near a crime scene. There are things that must not be known, and Mark is prime evidence that something happened.

"Donghyuck," he murmurs, "You're pretty."

It's unexpected. Donghyuck shifts a little, unsure if this was an agreement. He still feels flattered.

"Are you trying to hit on me?"

"...Anyone who deserves compliments should receive them. It's not something to be picky about."

Jungwoo's voice faintly rings in his ears, saying something along the lines of how this person is known for being really picky. 

What a nice contradiction. 

His voice is so sincere Donghyuck wants to tumble down the staircase till gravity takes over and drags him through the floor and into the earth. He isn't opposed to being buried beneath an art theatre.

"So, can we forget or not?"

Mark gulps. 

A beat of silence passes.

"Consider it done, as long as I'm still given a chance to make it up to you." Mark whispers back, as if to memorialise this moment. His eyes go rounder with mirth and soft lips stretch into a pretty grin. His nose scrunches at the same time and it hits Donghyuck right where he has a soft spot for pretty boys with honest smiles (he's also seen it somewhere recently, but that may have just been Mark).

  
  


今

  
  


Donghyuck wakes up to the screaming of his phone alarm and a slick sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

It is well past noon which means he's roughly slept around thirteen hours. The idea is fascinating because he's been getting the longest sleep of his adult life here -- in a small Neo hotel room. 

That also means he's missed a phone call from Jungwoo. He decides to call later. There is an urge to call back the moment he sees the notification, but he still feels sluggish and a little ashamed about his behaviour yesterday and proceeds to swipe it away. He could have been a little more empathetic about it, or maybe they could have talked it out.

He hasn't known Jungwoo long, but it feels like ages ago when they first spoke to each other under the stars. 

The older man even drove him back last night, bidding a soft-spoken farewell, telling him that he's going to be extremely busy for the next few days but that his phone is always reachable.

He faintly remembers Mark mentioning medicine and Donghyuck sighs heavily, exasperated.

Slipping off the bed, he walks over to his bag and pulls out the leaf of painkillers he popped yesterday. As he thought, the strength is much higher than he is used to. He turns over the box. Side effects include sensitivity and delirium (not that he was delirious, just a tad too overwhelmed) that may last up to 28 hours. Fucking side effects, Donghyuck knows he can be emotional but never emotional enough to break down over things he has worked hard to overcome.

He chucks it into the trash.

He stops by the window and pulls the curtains aside just enough to see that it's another rainy day. 

The sky seems to hang a little closer to earth, grey and filled with heavy clouds that might burst any moment. Below, everyone seems to be lost in the trivialities of daily life, finding their way past mirror-like puddles and weaving in between crowds of identical people. 

At least he owns an umbrella now. 

His phone vibrates again. It's a text from Mark asking him out to dinner to discuss work details after practice tonight.

He needs a shower.

*

Mark Lee texts like he's being graded on comprehensive analysis and every emoji gets him an extra five points. 

The crux of the text (according to Donghyuck's understanding) is this: they met under reckless conditions. It was both risky and irresponsible (he wonders if Mark actually lived a satisfactory college life), and that in order to work together, they need a cleaner introduction. 

He also wants to make it up to Donghyuck because he's a nice guy.

While under ordinary circumstances Lee Donghyuck is the sort of man to never again bat an eye at someone who had the opportunity and chose to reject him. He stays true to the notion of self-confidence that brings him comfort.

As hot water washes off the lather on his back, Donghyuck can't believe himself. Just last morning he was ready to have Mark grovel at his feet for refusing to taste sweet, sweet Donghyuck. Since then, he has scored himself an unofficial dinner date and feels a little happier. 

It's easy to forget the previous few days happened. 

When he steps out to dry himself, he traces a little smiling face on the fogged up mirror. 

He knows what's happening now that he's well rested and not worried about other things. 

He feels young again.

It's like those days when he was 21. When he was still a stressed student with dark circles around his eyes and caffeine running his systems. When he had Jeno by his side to cover up for missed lectures. When he could do whatever the hell he wanted, whenever. 

Bitterness takes over his tongue, prickling and much too vivid. 

He isn't supposed to feel young again. 

For every second that he spends feeling youth fill his body, he invalidates a moment of his present. But is it a crime to want some happiness again? 

He doesn't know. 

There are too many things to think about. He just doesn't want to worry anymore. He's already worried enough for a lifetime. 

Yesterday was a day he needs to mark on his calendar. He felt thrills that would remain unmatched for any freelancer on the hills of Seoul. There's isn't anything inherently wrong with how he dealt with the myriad of information that was dropped on his head, it's just not the usual him. 

Donghyuck sighs, running a hand through wet hair. The front desk says there is a blow dryer in his bathroom, but Donghyuck failed to locate it.

He needs to get his fucking act together. 

Before he steps outside the bathroom, he rubs a hand over the smiley, erasing its existence.

*

The prospect of a date makes Donghyuck giddy (It's a poorly disguised work interview, but who cares, as long as he gets Mark's cheeks to flush?).

He stands over the giant mess he sleeps on, all his clothes strewn around haphazardly. It takes a keen eye to piece together a decent outfit, and it happens to be something of a promise he's made to himself -- that he's going to sleep with Mark at least once before he goes back home. 

His thoughts wander back to his last date, about a year ago. 

It was at a local café with just the right amount of dust floating through sunlight. He's always liked places with an ambience. His partner had been a man of many sensibilities with rather innovative ideas. Yet, all it led to was one weekend spent sharing bodily heat and two texts requesting infinite distance. 

He hasn't had time since then, with traveling and jumping at every professional opportunity that presented itself. 

There's something different about Mark. 

(He picks a nice lavender sweatshirt. Simple is best.) 

Everybody has their own share of fairytale romances. He knows they start with a fateful meeting under an amber sky. Then it's time to fall in love -- hard and fast -- irrevocably till there is nothing left in the world but moments spent together. Warmth that coils in their chests unfurls, leaving intimacy on a scale that is immeasurable. And as long as the heavens bless them, the love remains, only to crackle and fizzle out when your growth occurs apart rather than together. 

It's irreparable, the damage that occurs when one realizes that their fairytale has come to an end, and that happy endings are relative, not absolute. 

Donghyuck believes he has already experienced his fair share. 

If anything, right now, all he wants is something simple he can understand. His obvious attraction towards Mark only makes him crave company. 

(Oh, to chase summer flings again. Suddenly the weight of responsibility vanishes from his shoulders.)

(It might have to do with the fact that Mark found him when his brain was giving out severe distress signals, kinda like that thing called stocksomething syndrome? But that's too unromantic, isn't it?)

*

He leaves earlier than required in the evening, camera charged and a little flame flickering in his heart.

Donghyuck seems to keep forgetting how to learn from his mistakes. 

  
  


今

  
  


The coordinates Mark sent him lead Donghyuck to a place he has already become familiar with.

Hotpot runs business in all its glory.

People scramble in and out, umbrellas similar to his own flicking open to the rhythm of the downpour. Droplets of clear water chase each other down the curtains; he doesn't hesitate to step inside bracing himself for the sudden burst of spice he knows is coming.

He is merely dazzled by how small and generic this place looks for how popular it must be if two people have brought him here consecutively, to full tables and scurrying staff.

It doesn't take long to find Mark -- bright striped sweater hanging loosely off his frame -- who is standing at the till. 

Jisung stands there as well, the same apron as yesterday tied around his waist. They're talking in hushed whispers and Jisung seems to be at the brink of stomping his foot. 

Donghyuck doesn't want to interfere so he loiters about the entrance. As he's about to ask another waiter for a table, Mark's eyes flit over to him. 

He waves his hand and smiles shyly.

*

Jisung is off to bring their orders when Mark sighs and slumps over.

"You were the one who pinched his cheeks yesterday?" He asks, mild amusement playing along the tone of his words.

Donghyuck flushes immediately.

"It just happened. He looked adorable."

"True that, he is, in fact, extremely adorable. It's just weird how kids get more and more adorable as you raise them."

He looks at Mark's far-off expression, bright overhead lights reflecting in round glasses. 

"You raised him?"

"He's my nephew," he confirms, sitting up straight, "Jisung doesn't have any other living relatives now, so I've been looking after him. Besides, you came here yesterday, I'm sorry, we could have gone anywhere else-" 

Donghyuck sighs, exasperated and chides Mark for apologising again and again. 

"You've said sorry like a hundred times already," he points out. He reaches out to open the cool bottle of water Jisung left at their table earlier. 

There's something uncannily liberating about the atmosphere of Hotpot. 

There is an elderly couple seated right across, a group of what looks like hippie university girls huddling over their food next to them and a solitary burly man drinking strawberry milk a little farther away. Everyone exchanges smiles whenever their eyes meet. They're all sat on poorly arranged stools, eating from utensils washed thrice a day with a freshly painted ceiling that gives them shelter from rain. It's as if no boundaries exist as soon as you step past the entrance.

Donghyuck likes the idea of such freedom.

"The food was nice, there's no problem trying more things here." 

Mark's expression lightens as he hears that and starts talking about how the mala flavoured broth they ordered is the most famous here when a wave of dread crashes over Donghyuck. If Jisung is Mark's nephew and he doesn't have any other living relatives...then doesn't that mean...

"-possible to come here and not eat-- Donghyuck, are you alright?"

"Just zoned out a little."

They focus on talking about little things, from what Mark works with and what he wants Donghyuck to photograph to the specifics. There isn't anything complicated, just tagging along wherever Mark goes, helping him interview people and taking a lot of scenic shots. 

"I want you to do it in your style, with whatever you feel comfortable handling," Mark emphasises, folding the corners of a tissue paper, "It's as much your child as it is mine,"

Donghyuck feels the tips of his fingers tingle. Ah, Mark and his sweet heart-shaped vocabulary. He wants to take a picture right here.

"Can I take a picture of you?" his fingers run over the buttons on his camera absentmindedly.

Mark wets his lower lip (he has to stop doing that for Donghyuck's sanity) and sucks in a deep breath. 

"Why?"

"No reason, you just looked very..." _cute_.

"Consider yourself a new man, Mark Lee. You have successfully left a new impression on me."

Mark laughs. It's head-turning. It's also infectious and Donghyuck can't help but chuckle along. Perhaps, first impressions don't need to be taken as they come, he thinks, looking back at Mark's face -- and ah, this is why those nose scrunches looked familiar, his and Jisung's. 

He's staring at Mark like an obsessed maniac again, urgh, Donghyuck has severe self-problems right now.

The moment breaks as soon as their ingredients arrive. 

"Here," -- Jisung heaves a large platter of meat onto one side -- "And here," -- a small bowl of some kind of sauce is placed in front of Donghyuck. 

"I'll bring your vegetarian things and broth in a minute," he rushes away, almost as if his feet allow him to glide over air.

"Really, though? Am I forgiven?"

"For not sleeping with me? Yes. For leaving me alone so rudely? I'll think about it."

Mark throws his head back, "How unfortunate."

"You have the next few weeks, Lee, since I'm ready to work with you if the pay is good," Donghyuck says.

"This much per hour," the other quickly pulls up the calculator app and after typing in some numbers, slides his phone across the table. 

"Deal. Pleasure doing business with you, so do I need to call you 'Boss Lee' now?" 

Mark giggles again, shaking his head.

"No need for any of that. It's just Mark-"

"Or chemical hair," Jisung interrupts -- when he comes and goes, nobody knows because even Mark jumps while Donghyuck is a second away from shrinking in his skin. He messes up Mark's hair, exclaiming he'll have to wash his hands now and the older swats at his arm repeatedly.

"Jiji! Make _some_ noise, will you?"

"Sorry, stealth training," Donghyuck can't tell if he's joking or not.

The rest of their meal passes without any teenage boys dropping in unceremoniously and they're both grateful for it. Another waiter helps them clear up and brings tea.

Mark drops a text to his legal agent and lets Donghyuck know he'll have an actual contract drawn up within a few hours and they can negotiate that when they meet next. Then it's mostly eating in silence, passing thoroughly boiled meat back and forth. They talk about the weather here ("When it's summer, it's extremely hot, so people like it when the rains start,") and Donghyuck mentions his fascination with umbrellas. Mark listens with glittery eyes and interjects exactly where it's required. 

By the time they're so full they can't move, Donghyuck learns that Mark plays more than two instruments, has a fascination with little furry things (?) and loves to drink cold tea. 

In turn, it's only fair he divulges that he only took up photography professionally after hopping courses from business administration in college and that his favourite sweater was knit by his sister a few years ago.

"That's adorable," Mark says, stirring honey into his cup of tea. His other hand lies still on the table, right where their food had been before. (In his head, Donghyuck wonders if Mark is as tasty as food?) 

"I know right, I wasn't even expecting it." 

He reaches out and rubs the tips of his fingers against Mark's knuckles, toying with them to uncurl his hand. Mark gulps. 

"Too forward?" Donghyuck whispers as the other blushes. 

The thing is, Donghyuck himself _does_ think it's too forward, but there's no way to convince the part of him that wants to lounge in warmth like a lazy cat on a spring day. He's still miffed about the whole ordeal last night (he doesn't really take abandonment well), but Mark has been nothing but a very proddable ball of fluff ever since. He wonders where confident Mark with a penchant for cranberry has decided to hide.

"We work together now," he gets in response but doesn't let up the coercing. Within a second, Mark's palm is open and he's tracing shapes into it with light pressure.

"Doesn't take away what I'm feeling, but do you dislike it? I'll stop it if you do." 

The answer doesn't even take a beat.

"I don't dislike it."

Perhaps the universe has decided it's time Donghyuck stops being stuck in a spiral of unrequited attraction. _Thank you universe, much obliged._

"That reminds me, do you know why this place is famous?" Mark asks, finally happy with the dollops of honey he's been pouring in.

"Your mayor, right?"

"Yeah, Jeong Jaehyun. You can't come to Hotpot and not talk about him or local politics. Everybody loves him though."

"That's weird, I never thought there could be a politician everybody actually likes," Donghyuck says honestly.

Mark turns his hand around, interlocking their fingers gently.

"I used to think so too, especially since our previous mayor was a little...wrong in the head," Mark takes a sip and urges Donghyuck to try it. He refuses politely. With how sweet it probably is, Donghyuck will end up getting high.

"Jungwoo said he knew the mayor, do you know him too?"

"We were close back when we were still students," sparks trail up from where a thumb rubs wherever it can reach and the space between their palms disappears, "And I used to work with one of his brothers. But then things happened, he entered politics, shifted out of the dorm...we all just fell into our own ways."

"When I hear you and Jungwoo speak these things, it's like I'm suddenly in a place far beyond my means," there are pebbles falling down his chest, collecting to weigh more than a single rock would. 

Donghyuck is extraordinarily ordinary. 

He comes from a humble broken family that does office jobs, his siblings are happy wherever they are, he has one friend where he lives and money isn't a constraint only because he chooses not to spend.

On a scale of vampire-with-false-identity to rock-with-zero-motive, he falls around the album-of-newspaper-clippings mark.

"I'm just as normal as you are," Mark's voice is light, "Only because I knew someone once doesn't mean I know them anymore."

That makes everything shut down and the only thing in his head is Mark's voice and those words. They reverberate within him, spreading cold on a burn he didn't know exists. He watches as Mark finishes drinking, sip by sip, and sits in the incoherent din that surrounds them.

There have been many people in his life. Most of them -- scratch that, all of them -- he has failed to recognise as time passes by. 

It is inconceivable how someone's entire life can be sliced up like sashimi and presented on a long white plate seasoned with nothing but oil. Yet, it happens. Again and again. It keeps happening in repetition. Ever since he has stepped foot in Neo, Donghyuck hasn't gone a day without being reminded of every detail of his life that went wrong. This must have been why his cards spoke of obstacles and challenges, he muses.

If this weren't the twentieth century, filled with an odd sense of humour and hypocritical measures of progress, he'd like to be born a good few decades ago. 

He'd like to be born on the islands again, born to high tide and chipped coral. Then he'd leave again, but to never know if return is possible.

He imagines what it would be like, to meet someone like Mark in a dingy diner after midnight, running away from his fears in a city that has telephones and cars. They would look into each other's eyes, sit in a convertible and escape maybe, to someplace the past can never haunt them. They would drink to their newfound freedom, share little anecdotes and sleep, unknowing if there's another sunrise written in their fate.

That, Donghyuck thinks, is pretty much what they're doing right now. Except it sounds a lot more romantic when he imagines them in loose floral shirts and glittering hoops hanging from fragile ears. 

Neo, as horrifying as it has been, is a vivid experience he believes was pulled right out from a modern movie trying to be noir.

"What are you thinking about?" The pressure on his palm lets up and smooth fingers start rubbing circles into Donghyuck's wrist.

"This city feels different, very different," Donghyuck admits, finally voicing what's been going on his head for so long.

Mark hums, contemplative, "Do you know the folklore of Neo?" 

Donghyuck shakes his head. He hadn't looked so far into the culture before coming here. It looked just like any other mixed metropolis.

"Well, Neo isn't that old, so calling it folklore is technically wrong but that's what everyone says, so..." he trails off, probably finding the right words. Donghyuck waits. 

"It's related to our visa granting process actually, and it's going to sound very whimsical but that's something that makes the citizens of Neo feel special. You know how you get entry here, right?"

"I was surprised to learn that people from neighbouring cities can't cross borders without a permit," Donghyuck says. He was actually shocked when he was told this while applying for a visa. Neo isn't even a state or province, just a big city, and it has its own set of rules.

"It's because you need someone born here to guarantee that you're harmless. Jungwoo's citizen ID is on your passport, if _you_ get in trouble-"

"Jungwoo gets in trouble-"

"Exactly."

The moment of silence stretches out and they realise it's already late. The crowd has started to dwindle after a restless day and Jisung is busy wiping down tables near them.

"It all started when we shifted from oligarchy to democracy -- all power went from the hands of one family into the hands of our people."

Donghyuck didn't know such a government structure existed until now, "Ages ago, this was a city built on refugee camps, mixed nationalities and rejects all in one place. They were...raging and demanding for space and Neo happened, their own home. Which is why Neo is so special. It is a symbol of hope and everything was just magical back then."

"That's, I don't know how to say this, so beautiful? The emotion behind it," Donghyuck says. Mark nods energetically, then his forehead creases as he focuses on what he wants to say next.

"I think, that's when the stories began going around. You only touch Neo soil if fate allows you.

"What that means is, that coming here means you've taken a different path from what was written for you. This place is sacred in a way, for those who have unfulfilled wishes, unhappy lives, dreams that were broken...in any world. My guardian used to say her past life wishes were coming true, another friend of mine says he came to Neo because something unpleasant must have happened in an alternate universe...so anything goes. What matters is if you believe in it, they say you connect to the city's soul.

"If you have no salvation elsewhere, Neo will welcome you with open arms. Then again, you can't come here on a whim. It's either defying fate or fate choosing to bring you. Does that make sense?"

It's interesting, how someplace that drowns in rainwater also drowns in hopes and expectations.

"What happens if you come here then? Do your wishes come true?" Donghyuck asks.

"That's a good question -- nobody knows. They might or they might not."

"Say, I was dirt poor in my past life, does that mean I'll have money if I was reborn in Neo?"

"Interesting. I don't think so, I don't believe in rebirths, but if it happened then maybe you'd be born as a Neo millionaire, who knows?" Mark huffs out a little laugh.

"And what if I had an unrequited love in a parallel universe? Would it be fulfilled here?"

"I think you'd be the best judge of that. Nevertheless, this is just a myth. It's mostly a feel-good thing." 

Donghyuck sits there, humming as thoughts churn around in his head, overlapping and sometimes colliding. Truth is stranger than fiction, they say and there have been more than enough incidents to make him believe that.

"How about you tell me more?"

"Things about Neo? Sure, " -- Mark's phone lights up, a slew of notifications appearing within moments -- "Give me a sec?"

As he scrolls and continues to read, all colour drains from his face. Before Donghyuck can ask what's wrong, he's calling someone, the corner of his mouth twisting.

"Hello? Yukhei? What happened, why am I being summoned for questioning?"

The rest of his tea is left cold and untouched, honey separating and settling at the bottom.

  
  


昔

  
  


Mark pulls his bowl closer, ceramic scraping against aging wood. He cringes at the noise -- too loud for silence this severe. 

Jungwoo sits next to him, right where he has ever since they met in Mark's last year of middle school. Right where Jaemin sat earlier that morning with a plea on his tongue and the guise of an unknowing man on his face. 

Usually, when Jungwoo is around for dinner at home, everything is lively. There are spoons clattering in the kitchen and meaningless bickering with Taeil over what material is best for bucket hats (Mark thinks it's canvas but he doesn't want to take sides). Tonight, Jungwoo stares at the blank screen of his phone with a grim expression. There's only the two of them in a dining hall that can hold more than thirty people.

"Hey, Woo, is everything alright?" Mark asks, picking at a long piece of cabbage hiding behind roughly chopped carrots.

"Yeah, yeah, everything is under control."

Jungwoo's tone suggests he doesn't want to talk about it and Mark is fine with it. Whatever the other wants to share, he will share in due time. As Mark scoops up a fair amount of rice, Jungwoo looks at him.

"Did you want to tell me something? You've been fidgeting for a good while,"

Mark coughs a little with the spoon in his mouth. He nods and swallows, patting his chest lightly. There is a beat of silence before he's ready to speak. 

"I told you about last night, right? The fiasco at the dinner party and what happened after?"

Jungwoo turns to look at him, phone abandoned by his side. 

"Is something worrying you-"

"That wasn't all. It wasn't the whole thing."

"Mark-"

"It's nothing bad, trust me, really, it's just about Donghyuck."

Pretty Donghyuck with a pretty voice and something so charming Mark finds himself wavering back to thoughts of glistening eyes and silky hair. A part of him cowers from confessing what happened last night. He knows Jungwoo is the last person who will ever judge him for doing something out of character but nervousness still shuffles in the pit of his stomach.

"Donghyuck?" Jungwoo's eyebrows come together in confusion. He has no idea where this discussion is headed and that's fine, Mark too believes it's a very wild thing to happen to someone like him.

"Yeah...I met-"

"Listen, Mark there's something I need to tell you."

Mark pauses and puts down his spoon. Jungwoo never cuts him off unless it's important, it's something the other just doesn't do and if he's doing it, Mark expects something significant.

Jungwoo pushes back his chair to stretch his legs out, his mouth set in a straight line.

"Mark, I _need_ you to know this. There's a reason I brought him here. And I may have been...lying a little."

His words leave Mark confused. _Reason? Lying?_

"Lee Donghyuck used to work for a private agency back in Seoul. He's an investigative photographer and not the kind that does simple stuff. He's known for being at heinous crime scenes,"

Alright, that escalated. This is even wilder than Mark's gay night out.

"That's... unexpected, but where are you going with this?"

"You remember when I went to Africa this summer?"

"That errand you were running for Jaemin?"

Mark recalls helping Jungwoo pack in the middle of the night. There had been a long debate about what kind of errand would take someone to another continent for a good month. 

Needless to say, he had been too anxious to approach Jaemin directly at his office. 

"The very same. That's where I met Donghyuck and he was hired to photograph people in the tour group. I don't know if he knows who his target was or not, but he has tidbits of information that shouldn't ever become public knowledge, Mark, ever. Nobody really socialised with him and I wonder if he realises why."

Mark holds onto the sleeve of Jungwoo's shirt, "Wait, what _did_ you do, Woo?"

"I was only making a delivery, if you ask Jaemin he'll tell you what, but it wasn't anything serious. It wasn't till Donghyuck came along."

"Did he do something?"

"Not that I know of, which is why I think...he doesn't know."

"You're not being very clear-"

There is noise from outside, a door closing gently and metal clinking lightly against glass. Only one of them has a glass bowl to keep their keys in the doorway.

Jaemin.

They freeze, this isn't something they want him to overhear.

Mark looks over towards the door and instead of a shock of pink hair, he sees Taeil speed past. That's confusing. He doesn't stop by to even look at the two of them. Maybe the date didn't go as well as he'd expected. When another door closes and everything falls silent again, Mark scoots closer asking Jungwoo to whisper just in case.

"There was a big South Korean drug lord's son in the group, he wasn't safe going back to Seoul,"

Jungwoo sighs and stretches his neck side to side. 

"Moreover, I have a good idea who hired him and that he'd have to come here anyway,"

"Someone from Neo hired Donghyuck from Seoul? How does that even make sense- wait don't answer that," _to leave no records here_ _of course_.

"Also...I lied to him about my wedding date -- yes, I know, don't look at me like that!-- Earlier I told him it was this weekend-" Mark snorts, "-and I pretended to be upset about shifting it further. So play along if he mentions it but he probably won't, he had a panic attack earlier."

A panic attack over a delayed wedding? Donghyuck did look unwell earlier too. Not all delayed weddings were doomed, just most of them.

Mark hums, then nods, before picking up his spoon once again. He doesn't know what to say other than he won't breathe a word of this to anyone. He's heard weirder things before -- done weirder things before -- and yet it's a little difficult to wrap his head around everything his best friend just threw at him (Jungwoo does this verbal infodump, he knows, but there's no getting used to it).

Jungwoo squeezes his shoulder once, twice, before patting him on the head and gazing back at his phone.

Mark thinks of Donghyuck -- in a neon orange hoodie -- pale and sweating from running too hard across paths that aren't familiar even to those who have grown up traversing them. He thinks of a shrill scream when all he did was touch a shoulder. And a camera. A dead camera swinging along every moment their bodies collided.

Briefly, another thought crosses his mind. Mark wonders if there's something bigger at play with the city being so restless as of late -- just like Jaemin and his tapping fingers -- and if all that bloodstained asphalt is only preparing to regurgitate everything once the right moment strikes.

Only if they could turn back time.

  
  


昔

  
  


The North Neo public safety bureau is struck by frenzy.

Phones have been ringing endlessly ever since that boy's body was discovered by the river-bed earlier that morning. Yukhei himself has already spoken to three informants and has received about ten phone calls ranging from possible family members to theorists complaining that this is all a set-up by the police. The citizens of Neo don't trust anyone that could be classified doing police-work, and while it has caused severe obstacles while investigating certain cases, they have good reason not to. 

Yukhei would like to disagree but it would be a feeble attempt at reclaiming respect for his job title. Working in the Neo public bureau is a poorly thought barter -- to be able to protect one side while being forced to turn a blind eye to another.

The only saving grace they have is Mayor Jeong's word. The people trust him. 

Tonight, no work cubicle is empty and there is noise coming from the document room, which is simply absurd because nobody ever opens that door, let alone look for anything in there.

The wall clock nearby reads a quarter past his usual leaving hour. It's a shame the investigation squad gets no overtime pay.

"Senior Wong?"

Yukhei sighs as he turns around in his chair. 

"Senior Liu? What is it?"

Yangyang looks around and tightens his tie before bending to whisper in his ear. Chief Son herself is at the precinct. Fuck.

*

As Yukhei neatens up his appearance in the elevator, his personal phone rings and before he gets a glance at the caller ID, there is another announcement summoning all senior officers to the meeting room. He fumbles around, already a little panicked, and pockets it. He remains unaware that he's connected to the line.

It's not even a minute before ten odd men and women are standing along the walls of the conference room. There are people talking around and he catches words like 'rumours' and 'more than one'. He opens his mouth to ask what his colleague means when Chief Son walks into the room. Squad Leader Lee Yongqin is on her tail and one look from him -- sharp and threatening -- shuts everyone up. 

"This needs to be fast," Son says, a rushed finality to her tone. She looks windswept with silver hair not even half as immaculate as other days. To have reached here while on vacation, she must have spent all morning on the road.

"Any updates on the body?"

Lee's eyes fall onto Yukhei and he gives a short nod in return.

"Yes Chief," He starts, taking a step ahead, "we are waiting for post-mortem reports for details, but the technician rules it as asphyxiation. No mutilation. An informant recognised him as a student at Neo public school Downtown, we are looking into their database at the moment. That's all."

"That's good progress for a few hours, I want the boy identified by night." Son says, fingers fiddling with a button on her coat.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Squad Leader, please brief them." 

Lee immediately walks away to switch on the projector. He inserts a flash drive and maneuvers around smoothly before the lights are dimmed and everything is bathed in ultramarine light from the blank screen.

A folder is pulled up, and soon a three panel picture follows. A man, a lady, a man. All dead.

"There have been three similar deaths in the past two days. There is a really good chance these are linked."

In the past five years that Yukhei has spent working here, he has seen some real shit. He's searched every nook and cranny of Neo to find disturbing crimes and mangled limbs. Every senior inspector in the room has led at least one classified murder case to the court, each with victims whose souls would shiver even trying to remember what happened with their bodies. One would think he'd be indifferent to some corpses just lying there with no signs of struggle. 

It hurts when they look serene. When they have no bruises and no traces of anguish on their faces. It's almost as if they gave up and allowed their lives to be stolen. 

It hurts the most when it doesn't look like a stereotypical killing. 

"You mean we have a serial killer? Here, in the North?" Someone pipes up, astonished and Yukhei tips an imaginary hat to them. They've voiced exactly what everyone is thinking without being afraid of a reprimand. 

"There's no rules that only Downtown can have serial killers, are there?" Lee bites, a little too bitter.

"We've requested the Downtown precinct to hand over any relevant data," he continues, "and most importantly, one of these men used to live in Downtown, so you'll be moving around the place a lot more." 

"Are you certain it's the work of the same person? Or the same group?" A woman asks. Yukhei doesn't know her name, she must be new.

Chief Son speaks up this time, her face set in a thoughtful frown. 

"We cannot be certain without forensic investigation. The other three cases were lodged with the police and we can't request anything unless their stations sign us in."

Squad Leader Lee clicks open another set of pictures, all locations that Yukhei personally has many memories in. The riverbank where he had his first real date, the back alleys where he used to hide while skipping classes, a clearing near the south plantations where he first arrested an offender and an obscure corner of the 11th block where he nearly died a few years ago.

There's nothing in common about these places.

"We've received some insider intelligence however. There's a bigger concern at the moment. Pre-elections are in a month's time." Lee says and it's as if everyone has been rooted to their spot, only shallow breaths permeating the air.

"Which means...it may be something political?" Yukhei didn't mean to say it out loud, but he's on the right track of thought and Son nods.

"If it is something within the parties, it might be cleared up internally before we know it." 

"If not," Lee continues solemnly, "then we can't have a serial killer- or worse, a group of serial killers out in the streets. Elections mean masses of people flooding North to cast a vote. First, we can't risk any of their lives. Second, the current Mayor needs to be kept out of harm's way."

"On another note, Mayor Jeong has issued notice to keep this classified for now." That's confusing, shouldn't it be made public to throw off the people plotting this? 

"The investigation needs to be undercover and only the boy from today morning has been made public knowledge. There's not enough information out about the others for ordinary citizens to link them." 

It takes a beat to sort through all the possible insinuations that Lee and Son make. Yukhei swallows thickly, waiting for an explanation when Yangyang makes a suggestion, always a little faster on the uptake.

"Do you mean this may be a cover to sabotage the Mayor? There's no way the opposition will get a single vote if Jeong is in the race." 

"I was just getting there, and you know what happens if it's real," Son folds her arms. She's a bit too fidgety for this to be normal. "Our entire department dissolves and the case will be handed to the central government police. That's what the 'anti-Jeong's will push for anyway." 

"We've had a fantastic record so far-" the lady senior speaks up only to have Son cut in.

"Do you think that matters? If it's a ploy to get Jeong off the chair, we're the first target, his own team of snoops."

"Do you have any idea what will happen to this city if our local system dissolves?"

A look of surprise dawns on Yangyang's face then immediately shifts to outrage. Yukhei faintly recalls Yangyang having trained to be a police officer when he was younger, only to be recruited here upon learning how callous the central system could be. He can relate as well, the investigation squad was what brought Yukhei's own life back from the dead.

"I know, if word gets out of how Neo operates we'll be...it counts as massive treason towards the centre for one," Lee says, walking around the projector to lean against the meeting table, "and we can be held in complicit for acts we don't even know have occurred."

It is common knowledge that Neo thrives on crime. 

The very roots of this city were established by people who dealt in arms and blood. That's as much the truth as the sun rising in the east. Those people still exist within the shadows, never visible but always lurking.

Most of Neo's economy ran on what was sold out of local drugstores -- not medicine and not germicides. Even today, people don't move out into certain places at night. That is something any law enforcer is forced to overlook, that is why a force as brutally mindless as the central military cannot take over Neo's systems. They'll step foot on the wrong square and blow everything up. The citizens will suffer in strife where they can live comfortably without interference.

"Isn't Jeong's mother the Governor? Can't she pull any strings?" Yangyang asks again. 

This time it's another senior inspector that answers.

"That's why the opposition campaigned against Jeong personally, not his methods. Jeong's whole image relies on being a city favourite, that's counterintuitive." 

"We're the only ones who have rights to protect him in such a scenario though, we're like his own not-so-secret service aren't we?" Yukhei asks, a little doubtful of everything.

"We still need his express permission. And if Jeong goes, the bureau goes. Our jobs go and there's a chance...that the people underground won't take it lightly." Lee says with easily feigned nonchalance.

The people underground -- the lawless ones who dapple in villainy with no repercussions.

"Losing our jobs means we inadvertently lose our lives." Son breathes out, and this is why she had been so stressed all along. 

It doesn't take long for Yukhei to put two and two together. 

There is a massive chance the serial murders have been orchestrated to bring down Jeong Jaehyun's government and systems. They've been perfected with immense public effort and he was the one who pushed for setting up the first Neo public bureau five years ago. If Yukhei remembers correctly, Jaehyun was _raised_ to take over as governor someday. 

Which means he's been right in the middle of negotiations all his life. 

If the atmosphere of Neo was measured on a weighing balance, a flourishing economy from crime would hang on one side, a legal system would hang on the other and Jaehyun would be the extra weight that equals everything.

The public safety bureau, the re-established district court, the Neo pharmaceutical laboratory -- neither of these can exist if Jaehyun isn't set on course to be the governing leader. 

If Jaehyun is eliminated in any way, all of Neo will collapse because of imbalance. 

If these local systems are uprooted, every person who stands to gain something will pounce upon the people who will be displaced. Every person who stands to lose anything will make sure to eradicate them, innocent or not.

"Is this a job for the bureau alone? We can't reach out to the police because we'll become offenders in their eyes."

"If this really is a political war, we can't do shit by ourselves." The lady from earlier says. Yukhei makes a point to learn her name and become acquaintances later.

"There is something we _can_ do," Son's eyes are trained on a spot on the wall, but she's clearly thinking of somewhere far far away.

"We need to find an underlord and convince them to back us up."

"Fuck no, I'm not working with jaded criminals," a scruff voice interrupts -- one of the older seniors. 

"This is all speculation-" Son says, voice softer than anyone has ever heard during a work meeting. 

"Even if it is, I'm not going to shake hands with someone who's willing to shed innocent blood by saying bullshit like it's for the betterment of Neo!" 

"Jeong's own brother died in this nonsense two years ago-" Yangyang intervenes. He's always been a hot-blooded youth. Yukhei will talk to him in person later.

Son raises a hand.

"Silence! Again, this is all speculation. In case this is all true, I need you to come up with solid back up plans to handle any possible scenario." 

There is an uneasiness in the room. Half the seniors are miffed, the other half are still absorbing that there are possibilities unaccounted for that may cause their lives and others' to be sacrificed in the name of keeping Neo alive.

"Until then, focus on the murder. That is all, you're dismissed."

As some seniors storm out and the others follow, Lee calls out.

"Senior Wong, Senior Liu, stay back."

*

"Is there anything we can do to he-" 

"Cut that out Yukhei, we have something important to discuss." Lee- no, Ten says. They've been friends for so long it still gives him whiplash to see Ten shift in and out of his work persona. 

"You really think the opposition is trying to get Jaehyun's head?" Yukhei says. 

Wendy pulls out a chair and motions for the other three to do the same. "We're not sure. In fact I suspect someone is taking advantage of this set-up." 

"Why is this case undercover then?" Yangyang looks over at the closed door. He does that often because 'there's something about doors that shouldn't be trusted no matter what'. _I'll tell you why someday_ , he'd said when Yukhei first learnt of it. That someday hasn't arrived yet. 

"Actually...it wasn't Jaehyun who asked for it to be undercover. It was the Lady Governor." 

"Mayor Jung has been missing since the night of 2nd August."

"What the fuck?" "Why aren't we looking for him?"

"Looking for him is going behind the higher ups' backs," Ten deadpans, obviously as irritated as Yukhei feels.

"In a way, but it's not beyond our rights. We started off as an independent inquisition squad, didn't we?" Wendy says, rubbing a hand over her face. Her lipstick smears a little in one corner.

"What if we can't find him?" Yukhei whispers.

The three of them stand with bated breath as Wendy closes her eyes.

"Then this city will go up in flames."

  
  


昔

  
  


Adventure, Donghyuck thought. Adventure isn't always a quest for gold at the end of an action-packed ride through dense forests. Adventure also isn't scouring dungeons built of ancient rocks to rescue stolen souls.

He shouldn't have expected too much to be honest. He hasn't ever been on a thrilling blood-curdling chase and the chances of being chased through the maze-like grids of a rainy city are almost zero. He doesn't think anyone is capable of figuring out the mouths of this maze by themselves. 

He has spent nearly two hours trying to navigate these roads.

His map application is of no use because apparently the actual geography of this place doesn't match up with everything that Google has been trying to shove down his throat. If Google was correct, he would be standing in front of a pretty retro style jazz bar not the ruins of what looks like a raided weapons store.

A gust of cold wind blows and Donghyuck shivers. He lets out a noisy exhale as he rubs his arms. His shoulders are still wet to the touch from an unexpected downpour a while ago. 

Common sense says that he should ask a local for help.

He tried, and the directions only led him to a huge greystone building with lace covering up all it's windows. 

Since then, he's run into no people. 

It's somewhat terrifying.

It's been getting darker by the minute and if this keeps up, he wouldn't get back to his room before midnight. The clouds seem to have dispersed to form a misty sheet, wrapping around the existence of Neo like shells wrap around empty space. 

A few more minutes pass and distant bulbs light up in thinner alleys. He can't believe there are no people in a part of the city that boasts of an excellent nightlife. Then again... Donghyuck assumed that on his own didn't he? 

The paper map sprawled on his desk only said this area had lots of restaurants and clubs. 

He swallows thickly as he walks closer to the nearest source of light.

Loose pieces of asphalt crinkle under his feet, rubbing against the solid pavement. Every building here seems to have a certain morbidity to it. They're alive, but only enough to have their unfocused eyes glued to trespassers on these streets. 

As he walks, a door slams shut. So there _are_ people here. 

He looks around, sweat coating his palms, and pockets his phone while trying to find any other signs of life. He needs to get out of here before the ground melts and engulfs him. He has a strange feeling it could happen any second.

What if this place is-

A touch to his elbow startles him. Donghyuck turns around, mouth agape and eyes wide. 

He comes face to face with a man in a long trench coat holding a huge umbrella. The man smiles at him, dimples on his cheeks, silky hair falling across a smooth forehead in gentle waves and an implausible kindness coating his baritone voice.

"Are you looking for something?"

*

  
  



	6. (幕間) You float around me, As if I can catch you but I can’t

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> interlude.
> 
> key : each symbol denotes a section from a different perspective, in case it's confusing.
> 
> also, yes this is sub-par quality but it's only meant to drop information I can't in the main narrative :D I hope you pick up on all of it (and then I can end the plot faster haha)!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw : food, mentions of death
> 
> I think it's better that you don't read this work, if you have any recognised triggers. it's safer. 
> 
> unedited!

~

  
  


Another day, another ache permeates deep into Jisung's bones.

He wakes up to goosebumps pulling at his skin and flashes of a vivid dream burnt behind his eyelids. (A hand, burnt and flaking. A door that never closes. Mark, who keeps slipping away.)

It's cold. The expression on dream Mark's face reminds him of days he'd rather not remember anymore.

The ceiling fan spins way too fast for his liking. He reaches out for the control, body still buried under cotton sheets. By the time he opens his eyes and fumbles around for his glasses, the gentle patter against his windowpane turns to heavy thudding. He hadn't even registered the fact that it was raining until then. 

There aren't many reasons a person can hate this season. It's necessary. Sure, everything gets too wet, all his clothes never dry just right, there's mould in the corners where mops don't reach, and oh, the sun keeps hiding as long as it likes, but there really is too much in this world that keeps people coming back for rain. The promise of romance, for one -- something Jisung personally wants to strangle -- and the promise of peace being another. 

He's tried everything. He's tried kissing his crush under the rain (that didn't end well) and sitting by the windowsill with a steadily cooling cup of tea in his hands. He's even had his cheeks pulled by a stranger -- twice -- and been called cute.

And yet...yet he has no reason to like the rain. In fact, he hates it more with every night of unsettled sleep.

The ringing of an alarm pulls him out of his thoughts. 

Just as he swipes across his phone screen and stretches his arms, there's light knocking at his door. He doesn't have the chance to say anything before it's flung open. 

Chenle walks in -- straw coloured hair all over the place and fingers drenched in blue ink -- rubbing an eye. He leans against the doorframe, yawning. The corners of his eyes are hued a dull red. It looks like he hasn't slept once again. It feels like it's been years since Jisung last saw his best friend but it's only been a few hours. Realistic dreams do that to you.

"You didn't sleep?" He asks before Chenle can say anything. The older shakes his head and waves a hand to dismiss it. 

"It's eleven, when are you gonna leave?"

"Yeah, no shit," Jisung flips over his phone to check the time. 11:02 am, "I messed up my alarm."

How, he wonders, did he mess up. If not him, how did his alarm not pick up the timings he fed into his schedule on the common cloud? 

"Again," It's a statement. There's a loud clanging somewhere, perhaps in the dorm kitchen. There's no time to eat breakfast if he wants to make it in time for the noon shift. Chenle walks closer to sit at the edge of his bed, then plops down, the length of his body weighing on Jisung's legs. 

"Again," he confirms.

The rain outside lets up by the time he's dressed and unchaining his bicycle but the torrent in Jisung's chest doesn't seem to lighten even a little.

  
  


×

  
  


In Neo, cars never stop honking. Lights remain ever-reflected on glassy walls up North and the dim glow of Downtown, wrapped in cement with brick walls, never fades no matter what time of day it is. Pedestrian traffic never dwindles and if Jaemin didn't know better, it would be so easy to assume that the asphalt that builds Neo was imbued with some sort of magic to attract herds of souls. 

It's not beyond possible, not when every little thing that happens in this town has no explanation. 

But that doesn't settle well with him. Never has, never will. 

He pulls up the hood of his sweatshirt and ties the strings snugly around his throat. In a sewn pocket under one of the long sleeves, he hides a 25 ml vial and under the other, he hides a capped syringe.

Over the past few hours of waiting and deliberation, he has come to a single conclusion. And he feels it in his guts that he's right. Everything that's been happening is a chain of individual events, like dominos falling. The fresh murders, the people encroaching his grounds, even the people he's been baiting while being baited in turn. 

Two things need to be done. The initial push needs to be found and more dominoes _need_ to be kept from falling. 

In theory, it's easy. But practically, he doesn't know where the root lies or how far the ruin has spread. 

And so, he'll take his chances. 

  
  


~

  
  


If he were to talk about why he dislikes the rain so much, Jisung reflects as he waits to cycle across another red light, then it would be a very forced conversation. 

He just doesn't talk about it anymore. He doesn't want to be the tragic protagonist of a shoujo manga. He's actually been called that before, by some sleazy douchebag the first time he talked to a friend and ended being eavesdropped upon. Of course, things were handled fairly well, all with how much bandaging Mark's knuckles had required along with a hefty fine for public violence.

The light turns green, and he peddles as fast as he can -- careful -- to reach hot pot before his shift starts. The sky blesses him with just a light drizzle but it doesn't help when every second inch of the ground is riddled with puddles. If he looks closely, he can see himself down to the last detail.

Jisung parks his bicycle behind Hotpot fifteen minutes late and the muscled owner fake karate chops the top of his head, before rushing him off to the apron stand.

There's a bad rush today, truant school kids ("Why can't you just sit in class?"), his own college friends ("Yo!") and people rushing in with dripping umbrellas in their hands. 

Hotpot isn't just an above average street restaurant, it's an information hub. Everybody gathers here for food and leaves dropping pieces of conversation that may sometimes cost more than money. Now, Jisung doesn't necessarily like to collect facts he has nothing to do with, but not over-hearing things is simply impossible with the fast pace this place has adopted. 

As he scurries around taking orders, the first thing that surprises him is the sudden increase in police officers eating here. 

Something must be going on.

A fellow waiter urges him to get side dishes on people's tables quicker than physically possible, and as Jisung lays out the table, he catches yet another conversation.

"There's something wrong in the atmosphere today, I can feel it. It's just not vibing. There were too many cars on the streets today too, there's never so many," and Jisung sighs. 

It reminds him of the past. 

Of two years ago when he lost his mother. He hates the rain, because it rained after she burnt down to ashes.

  
  


~

  
  


Jisung isn't usually good with strangers, especially certain outsiders because they have a tendency to mock Neo's lack of indigeneity, but Donghyuck's name is soft and sounds Korean, just like his dad's, so he lets his uneasiness slide. Mark would whack him on the head for being so judgemental.

He wonders if this Donghyuck person also feels how unnatural everything has started to feel. 

The city is tense. Any Neo citizen can feel it in their bones and whenever things are unstable, outsiders aren't welcome. But there's probably nobody who'll tell him because Mark is bloody oblivious to most things anyway.

He has to look away and focus on serving other customers or arranging ingredients orderly. This is intriguing, the same newcomer being brought over first by Jungwoo, then by his own uncle. They also look eerily close with the intensity of their conversation and how their hands skirt around the other's. He'll have to ask about it later.

For now, he hopes they eat heartily.

  
  


÷

  
  


Renjun lets out a loud screech as he stretches his arms out. He bends around, wiggles a little and falls back into bed. 

This is addictive -- going on vacation, that is. This is his second honeymoon with Jeno in the span of a year and if it were up to him, he'd keep going on honeymoons till neither honey nor moons existed anymore. It's a break from routine and the first time around, he did deserve it. 

Right now though, he thinks as he lounges in a 5-star hotel by a beach in Hawaii, he is just running away from duty. They're both running away and it's obvious with how conversation stilts whenever one of their phones light up with new notifications. 

He hasn't even bothered to message anyone since he set foot on the plane. Maybe soon enough, when their hearts stop hesitating at the thought of being together and public. When they're both ready to face the music, the result of whimsical actions. Until then, he'll bathe in the glow of a pretend paradise.

His phone has stopped receiving new messages anyway.

  
  


~

  
  


Mark is in a hurry when he hands over his card after dinner. It's a complete reversal of state given how cozy he'd been looking so far. His friend (partner?) stands off to the side counting the bills in his thinning wallet. Jisung wants to tell him to stop eating at hotpot everyday but that's against the code of conduct as an employee, even if he _is_ temporary.

"I need you to enter the pin, sir."

"You know it, Ji."

"Just wanted to confirm, don't want the authorities thinking I'm a thief," he whispers dramatically, punching in the digits and waiting for the machine to stop whirring.

"By the way, is everything okay?" He asks, putting the receipt and card on the counter. Mark looks up, surprise marring his face. What did he expect, to get away with looking like he's being pushed off the edge of his seat? Sometimes Jisung thinks he should have been the older one.

"All's okay, don't worry." 

"How long have you known him?" 

"Hm?" He looks back at Donghyuck, who seems to be satisfied with the amount of money he has left after dutching for dinner. "Two days, I guess?"

Jisung hums -- Mark's cheeks aren't as red as they were a while ago -- and refuses to comment further. 

The elder bites his lip as he rubs a thumb over Jisung's wrist, "Take care of yourself, okay?" Ah it's the usual, "Don't overwork and go straight back to the dorms. Stay safe."

"I'm nineteen hyung, one-nine nineteen. You don't need to worry about me."

"That's exactly why I do worry about you, but I'll hold you to your word. Text me as soon as you get back," he tilts his head, gaze stern before the younger nods. He leaves with a small smile. 

He catches up to the Donghyuck and links their pinkies again like he did while eating earlier. 

Holy hell, Mark is being lovey-dovey with someone he met two freaking days ago. Just _two_. Even after being asked about it. (He's touchy, sure, but never this quickly and never like this.) It's wild and very much unheard of -- Jungwoo must be frolicking outside like a madman to know Mark is courting someone. When he puts it that way, either his uncle has finally opened up to the idea of non-sciency worldly pleasures (ew) or...he doesn't want to think about it. That's a past both of them left behind the day his mother was laid six feet under. At least he likes to think so.

You never know what goes on inside Mark's head. Sometimes, he's as easy to read as a preschool fairytale. Sometimes, he's like the perfect blackbody -- absorbing everything and radiating, but never reflecting. And he only wishes to be able to understand what the man thinks and what he wants. Is being part of a family always one-sided? Is Jisung always supposed to be taking, taking endlessly, because he is the orphaned nephew?

The night is young and there are still many tables left to clean. 

He lets out a deep breath and turns back to the cash register after the two of them are well out of sight. Then he finds Mark's card kept on the counter. 

The world must be coming to an end. (Or maybe it's just Donghyuck who's hurtling towards the finish line. Whatever. Jisung will pray for his sanity and move on.)

  
  


~

  
  


After taking the long route back later that night, he finds a familiar car parked in front of their dorm. It's Jaehyun's, but he is nowhere in sight.

Chenle stands there with a weird, almost unreadable expression. His fingers are still stained in ink, but they look dark under the dim porch light. A chauffeur lifts his suitcase and fits it into the back of the car. 

"What's happening, are you going somewhere?" Jisung asks, pulling into the driveway.

"Jaehyun hyung wants me to go back to the main house." 

"Why?" 

"I don't know Jisung, but it's best if you come with us too. If Jaehyun hyung says we're not safe, then he means it," Chenle doesn't speak more, he looks closed off. But Jisung knows there's something he's thinking about that isn't adding up.

"What about your other hyung?" Jisung whispers, leaning his bicycle against the wall and wiping his hands on his sweater.

"I don't know. I haven't received a single message from him today and that's just plain weird- Come with me? We can share a room if Mark hyung's room is full." 

Jisung is tempted to say yes, he wants to go with his best friend of course, especially when he looks so unsure and troubled. He would pack his bags in a second if it weren't for a memory of Mark's worried expression. What would he say? Surely Mark would want him in plain eyesight at all times if possible. Yes, that's what he would want. 

And then...then Jisung would lose the last of his freedom. 

"Not now, I'll come if I need to. You're an important person, Chenle, you know that. You should go into safety first. I won't even be targeted if anything does happen." 

*


	7. (六) And we were fools, to think we were going somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it’s still mark day in some places, so happy mark day :D
> 
> the second act begins!  
> this part became longer than I wanted (and it's the most mark-centric chapter I think this fic will ever see because he's a black-box thinker), so it's been split into (六) and (七). this is, as usual, not edited so please forgive any errors. enjoy reading!
> 
> tw : mention of choking in the first line, murder, mention of minor injuries, mention of falling into water, career counseling (this is a sensitive topic for me :D)

今

  
  


Mark Lee would rather choke on the leftovers of Jungwoo's burnt apple pie and die than show up at the North Neo bureau. 

It's nearing 11. Any person crossing the streets at this hour in the North is no respectable human. That seems to be a well-known fact with how dark the streets are, only sparse streetlights guiding speeding cars -- each more eager to reach its destination than the last. The only lit windows on the streets are pharmacies and fearless convenience stores with tired clerks. Mark glances at his dashboard. He's almost there.

A few more turns and there stands the bureau, solitary with fluorescent lights flooding from every window onto the near-empty parking lot. It is a cage of steel and cement; a pretense of the highest degree to preserve order. 

Why him? What could he possibly be questioned for? Mark wracks through his memories for anything that could have led to this but ends up fostering the beginnings of a migraine instead of figuring where he'd gone wrong. The worst case scenario is that he'd be jailed, for what, he doesn't know and the best scenario is that it's just Jaemin pinning Mark for an alibi. He doesn't know though and Mark doesn't like not knowing.

His phone is void of new notifications as he crosses the threshold, automatic glass doors swallowing him into a bleak reception area.

The guard on duty ushers him to the check-in point. Mark rubs at his wrists while his details are logged in by a stern lady officer, head empty with hundreds of possibilities jarring brain function. She hands back his citizenship card and he shoots Yukhei a text to ask where he's supposed to go. 

Once every few steps his shoes squeak against the clean marble floor. There's nothing here to show for the clamour during the day, only broken-in couches lining the pale walls and the muted sound of someone's voice. The elevator doors seem to vibrate as the humming of a moving elevator falls onto Mark's ears. As soon as he crosses the waiting area and stands across the stairs, the doors buzz open, bringing Mark face to face with Wong Yukhei for the first time in ages. 

*

Yukhei doesn't speak much after they briefly shake hands, directly heading up to the third floor. His shirt sticks to the skin of his back with creases filling every other inch. Mark wonders if he should ask if something's bothering Yukhei when he remembers that he's here to be _questioned_ and flushes, feeling like a fucking idiot for even thinking of something this stupid in the first place. Of course Yukhei's busy and more than bothered by yet another case. His job is, simply put, stressful. Which it must be with the kind of nonsense they do when they're not being useful.

The hallway they step into is completely empty and there are no windows, just blue and gray walls with cracks in the plaster. It's ominous, this place has held criminals and not-criminals alike in contempt. If he listens closely, there must be sounds of someone shrieking in agony ricocheting in rooms where no one listens. Mark swears he can feel his heartbeat right up in his neck, throat constricting and ears ringing. With every breath, he wonders what shit he's got himself into this time. 

They stop in front of a gray door -- rough, probably thick -- when Yukhei holds onto his arm gently and pulls him aside for a hushed conversation.

"Alright, this is already going to sound weird, but we found a high school kid under the Down-North bridge. He's already given his statement about how he reached there. The parents are on their way from a few towns over."

"And how am I related to this?"

*

It's Lyn. Mark heaves a breath of relief when he spots the boy, the knots in his gut loosening. He rushes to the boy’s side, knees hitting the cold floor as Lyn looks up and starts tearing up. His face is pale, his clothes stained with dirt and he’s missing one shoe. 

“Hey, it’s me, you’re okay,” Mark whispers hurriedly. The young boy’s hands shiver as Mark takes them into his own. They look so frail and haunted, as if the boy had aged a decade over the month Mark hadn’t seen him, as if he wasn’t 15 but 50 and well-versed with the horrors the world has to offer. The situation knocks him back to a time when he had to crouch next to Jisung’s bed with tears streaking down both their faces, the smell of burning flesh stuck in their lungs, nauseating. 

Lyn doesn’t speak even after minutes spent coaxing. He rests his head onto Mark’s shoulder and sobs till he runs out of tears. 

Once Lyn’s parents arrive after a few hours and whisk him away -- pale faces and trembling figures -- Yukhei briefs Mark about how they found Lyn and the statement he gave as they head back downstairs.

“You were saved as one of his emergency contacts,” Yukhei explains. Mark faintly remembers talking about himself with Lyn once, right before the summer vacations, and that he’d assured him that if he ever needs help with something, he can always ask Mark. He just hadn’t expected the boy to take it seriously -- most students save his number only to never look at it again.

“The boy had been returning home after playing soccer with some friends a few days ago,” he says, looking at his reflection in a vending machine’s display, “He’d accidentally let go of his ball, after nightfall, and was looking for it when he saw it.” Two cans fall. “A murder. A light-haired man leaning over an unconscious body and then leaving it by the curb to sprint away. Lyn had stayed at the scene -- paralysed he says -- when people came around to drag the body away and he’d been spotted...which made him run for his life. He’d gone back home but couldn’t shake off the image and met with a small accident on his way to the bureau earlier tonight.” 

“That’s a lot to process,” Mark answers, accepting a warm coffee, “I had no idea, though it did feel odd when he didn’t show up to class today without notifying anybody. His attendance had been pretty good previously.”

“It is a lot, and the fact is that his recollection doesn’t help much at all. Except for the location.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean, Mark, is that he was near Starbright Fine Dining where an association hosted a dinner that night, a new association for the LGBT community that recently held a fundraiser to get started,” The coffee tastes a lot bitter than it should. Perhaps because it's just vending machine coffee, perhaps because Yukhei's words bring back unpleasant thoughts Mark wishes he could squash away forever.

“There is testimony that you engaged in violent verbal scuffle with the host,” Yukhei looks out the window. It’s started drizzling again, “And light-coloured hair...If I’m to believe Lyn and then compare you to pictures we found from that dinner, weren’t you blond? Why did you dye your hair, Mark?”

Mark swallows a large amount, half-emptying the can in one go. “I and a friend are working on a magazine which was originally meant to be compiled over the course of a few months, but we only have a few weeks now,” He looks into Yukhei’s eyes, gaze unwavering, “Which is why I dyed my hair. And it will keep changing colours even more frequently in the coming days. It’s as simple as that, it’s just to make our stint more believable.”

“You’re my friend-”

“What are you playing at," Mark interrupts softly, irritated, "We used to be friends-”

“And I’d like to trust you on this. How far can I trust you?”

  
  


今

  
  


Mark is perched at the very edge of his chair, shoes flat on the ground, almost as if there's no arch to his feet. If Donghyuck had a protractor, he's dead sure the bend of those legs would be at a perfect 90-- fuck that, he's gonna start using Mark Lee to measure right angles. Looking at Mark's clean posture sends jitters up his own legs, bent at the oddest angles and raised on toes where he sits alone in the front row. Donghyuck can't sit still for long. It feels ominous to be unmoving, more ominous than the burning ache between his shoulders and the slouch of his back. 

The practice hall (or was it a theatre? the walls are too ornate to be left untouched like this) doesn't feel that empty when he's sitting closer to the stage. If he turns back though, there are endless rows of dark chairs facing him, each seat looking like the shadow of a judgemental person. On stage, Mark sits facing five students. Three violins, a cello, a viola. Ready to start at a moment's notice. The others sit waiting behind Donghyuck, perhaps surprised by the sudden addition of a photographer to their entourage. 

While Donghyuck likes to move around when in-charge of how to handle shots, he's also curious about how this strings club works. It's markedly different from what he'd seen back in his own high school, because then, strings had meant guitar and a bass being played violently by wannabe rockstars. How far he's come. He's started to sound like one of those old men from 80s comics who cursed children for skateboarding in the open.

His own and Mark's bags are kept on the seat next to him and a big fluffy cardigan is on the armrest, folded into a neat square right below Donghyuck's elbow -- "For support," Mark had said with a kind smile and red ears. He's so adorable. Donghyuck could eat him.

Before he can get lost in his internal discourse, Mark moves his bow and it dances gently across the strings. He's playing a familiar tune but Donghyuck hasn't ever bothered to memorise the name of classical compositions. The sounds of strings -- heavenly, high and often a touch above the rest -- are beautiful but he's never felt any pull to learn what they're called.

As the volume of Mark's playing picks up, the few students on-stage join in. 

"They're already harmonising so well," a voice whispers behind him, warm with awe. Before Donghyuck can turn around and ask about the piece, a girl starts rambling in a voice too loud for this kind of silence, "They're not in sync though, Mr. Lee is somehow slower than he's supposed to be, see--"

And if Donghyuck strains his ears carefully, the single melody has started splitting into two, but it's barely audible. To untrained ears like his, he can't even tell it's because Mark's slow or something. It just seems like a shadow (or maybe a highlight) slithering to trail the students' instruments, filling in sound where the younger ones leave it empty. 

Mark's bow feels like an extension of his hand. It moves so elegantly, almost as if everything is weightless, so smoothly that Donghyuck flares up with the desire to be Mark for a few minutes. 

It's stupid to want to be that beautiful when he's never even seen a bow up close but he wishes to be someone as enchanting. He notices carefully how Mark's whole hand never touches anything, it's just fleeting points of pressure and wow. Donghyuck never thought he'd be pleased to _see_ someone practicing classical music in the same room as him. He doesn't even know which sound is Mark's or not anymore, he's just looking -- staring -- at talented _hands_. 

"With any other song, this wouldn't work," the person behind him speaks up again, "But this is okay, it's a beginner level thing."

"He's really ambitious if he wants to take those second-years to nationals with such simple pieces and especially if he's going to keep playing around with the original sheets. He's already made me do _so_ many tone changes-"

"Can you guys whisper if you really wanna talk? I'm actually trying to learn something here." Donghyuck finally says, turning around with an ingenuine smile, eyebrows furrowed.

He hears no talking for a while after that.

*

By the time the set is over, a second batch of students is warming up. Donghyuck raises his camera and focuses it on them. After observing them for two days, he can confidently claim that the only time they look serious is when they're about to start playing and it's the only moment he's interested in capturing. For as young as they can be, children complain about everything, whether they have what they want or not.

As Donghyuck prepares to take a wider shot, someone stands next to him.

"He could be a genius," It's the boy who'd been sitting behind Donghyuck during the first set, with big glasses and a lanky frame, "But he chooses not to be one. Is that possible?"

"Are we talking about Mark? I don't have much music knowledge to make any comments." He replies.

"Mr. Lee really is good. He's very good at following the rules and giving performances that match up to what competition panels desire. He's better with his violin but even his piano is pretty good. To be that good without daily practice, at this age," he sighs. 

"Layman terms, boy," Donghyuck chuckles, supporting the lens of his camera with a hand as he follows the students. The overhead stage lighting makes them look more dramatic.

"Simpler than that?" He's taken back and hums a little. He can probably give whatever explanation he wants, but Donghyuck isn't here to learn the technicalities of the classical music world, he only wants to learn more about this cute entity called Mark Lee. Donghyuck suspects this boy has something going on for Mark with how pink his cheeks are growing. Does this mean he's going to compete with fifteen year olds now? Wait, why would he even think like that-

"In short," the boy starts again, "He's great but he still teaches us, a group of high school students in Neo who take music very seriously when he could be a professional with a lot of artistic acclaim in some better corner of the world." 

Huh. The boy's words actually make sense. Mark looks like a painting when he sits there and expresses himself through music. He's a painting that has learned how to breathe and he breathes meaning into the air.

"What's your name?" Donghyuck asks, refusing to lower the camera.

"My name? I'm Lyn...Are, are you his boyfriend?"

Ah, so he knows Mark is into men (and to be honest Donghyuck wouldn't know either if it weren't for that one night). Is that why this boy has an affinity for Mark?

"And what if I am?" There must be a better past-time than riling up people a decade younger than himself, but Donghyuck finds he's enjoying the boy's sputtering too much. It's cute and he has a feeling he's going to be told something interesting. 

"That's great then! Very great! You're very handsome and he's very kind...but then that means you probably know why he's here and not where he should be."

 _You shouldn't be involved in the matters of people you aren't meant to know_ , is what he wants to say but doesn't because wouldn't that be hypocrisy at its best? A younger Donghyuck would hate being told that he has no business dealing with adults, and so he changes course. Comets can't change trajectories but nearly broken cars with sooty engines can.

"You really look up to him don't you?" 

"He is what I want to be. He is who I want to follow, except I actually want to complete university." Lyn says. Those dramatic overhead lights -- far, far above where they shouldn't be visible -- twinkle in his eyes. Donghyuck notices a cut on his temple and eyes a bandage peeking through the long sleeves of his shirt.

"It's very unfair of him," -- Donghyuck says as he changes his settings to a wider aperture and hopes the automatic light settings will do just enough -- "To hold back such a beautiful sight from the world." 

He looks at Mark through the eyepiece, nape flushed, posture perfect, and fingers ready to play melodies till everything is lost to oblivion. 

  
  


昔

  
  


No matter what he says about his childhood now, at the time Donghyuck loved it. At the age of ten, he had been living an ideal life where nothing could go wrong.

He was in love with the island, with the ever-energetic citizenry and with the kindness that flowed within the water. It was beautiful, with shape-shifting tufts of clouds in pale skies, glittering seas, sand that was softer than the clay littering smaller roads and even the laughter of their family. It was the only place he ever wanted to call home.

As siblings, they had always been notorious for playing pranks but they were also warmly welcomed by elders when it was time to shower children with love. 

He's always been a bundle of joy, at least that's what his grandmother claims, and it was evident even when his cheeks were the roundest. He's the older one and so he always looked after his sister, his brave yet girly sister with a deep love for yellow and flowers in her short hair. He's always loved her, and he always will no matter how far they've drifted away, with him looking for something to love and her raising a family with someone she likes. 

His mother has always been very well-spoken and bold which quickly made her a favourite within the markets. She would often come back with more spinach in her basket than she paid for. She was also pretty, sun-kissed just like him with dark eyes and curly hair. If you asked little Donghyuck who the prettiest woman in the world is, he would have pointed towards posters of idols but now he thinks it's his mother. Despite everything that's happened, it's his mother. He holds his fair share of grudges but at the end of the day, he doesn't blame her.

It went downhill suddenly. One evening he was celebrating his thirteenth birthday, the next he was fourteen and the house didn't seem so right anymore, and then he was fifteen and his father was being driven away in handcuffs. 

That's when things started to go downhill. 

Suddenly, his sister wasn't smiling Cheshire-cat smiles any longer. His mother wasn't humming tunes by the seashore. They would rarely step outside, fear drowning them. His grandmother would shake her head in disappointment then disappear to the confines of her own house far away to wait for grief to claim her. 

And Donghyuck. Donghyuck was 15 for the first time in his life and for a fleeting moment, it's all he ever wanted to be. 

*

The whispers died down when his father's company started fighting. His father was innocent they claimed, but doubt had seeded in his stomach, sprouting and deeply entrenching its roots in his body. When they won the case and his father along with his colleagues was released, his mother slammed their door shut -- right in his face.

It wasn't even murder, not even anything close really, just a massive case of fraud with the company they'd partnered with. One evening he called, she hung up the phone without a word and that's when she asked Donghyuck, "Do you want to continue living on stolen money, Hyuckie?"

Donghyuck, 15, middle school final year.

Donghyuck, 15, on the way to working part-time jobs throughout high school, with one parent, one sister left in his house and a brain that had suddenly gone through a hard reset.

*

The most surprising thing when he shifts to Seoul for university is his mother promising to pay his tuition fee. The conversation happens over a grainy phone call, a box of convenience store sandwiches and cheap vending machine coffee in Donghyuck's lap. 

"I've been saving up, and my uncle from Busan left some inheritance I cashed out," The news comes as a surprise, he didn't know anything about it, "Let me do this one thing for you. As for your living expenses, you can work part-time for a while, can't you? If it's too much for your pride to accept help from me...just support your sister when it's her turn." 

He doesn't push it and lets her do what she wants. After all, Donghyuck was done being the wishy-washy son, he was done with channeling all the little dregs of hatred he held in his heart towards the only lady willing to do something good for him.

He finds comfort in the fact that he sits in a classroom because his mother wants him to be there. Most students don't come to college to just study. It's an adventure they say, a time away from restrictive families to sleep around, to drink, to do whatever the fuck without facing repercussions. Higher education is only shiny when the gates are massive and flooded with millions of blood thirsty competitors. 

As time passes, he thinks of the campus as a little home. The library is familiar, every classroom has secrets, the cafés are his usual hangouts and the bartenders at all the nearest clubs know how he likes his drinks and his fucks. Life is easy when he ignores everything that made it difficult in the first place.

Then suddenly he's about to graduate and well. There is no shame in admitting that Lee Donghyuck has always been a little lost.

*

Between the two children, he was the one who lost his virginity first but she was the one who found love faster. Life works in weird ways, and she isn't even that happy anymore, just hanging on for her children and a kiss at the doorstep every morning. 

But that's what he thinks. She claims she's as happy as she can be, thank you very much. 

She still lives in Jeju. Her children attend the same school they did when they were 5. Her husband travels for a week every month to look after his exports business. It's a simple life, one of peace and quiet. It's a life Donghyuck wanted but can't have because he left behind his homeland when he was blinded with a frenzy for freedom. 

Being in Seoul has done him good. He's expanded his horizons, he's seen late night city life and he has felt everything that has to be felt. 

But it's also skewed up his sense of belonging. 

He can't go back to Jeju and settle there. He's no longer used to that kind of quiet where there's only 17 faces you see and greet everyday and those 17 faces are the only ones that matter. He can't step foot there without plunging into a wild mess of unhappy memories.

Where does he belong now? There is no person to call his and no city welcomes him with warmth he can only imagine. There is nothing to ground him.

When he sees Jeno off -- not even at the airport, but at a café where they don't talk, just look at each other and hug before parting -- all Donghyuck can think about is that Jeno has gone back home. He's probably headed back to live with his mother in -- wherever she is right now. Last Donghyuck heard, she was working at a herbarium in Argentina, but she's Jeno's home and that's where he's going. Donghyuck takes a cab back to his apartment, sleeps in complete silence after sending away the box of his ex's belongings to her place and wakes up to a new reality. 

This reality is as cold as his bedroom after leaving the windows open in the middle of November. In this reality, for a few months, Donghyuck hops from bar to bar, from friend circle to friend circle and gets further acquainted with the dirtiest parts of human nature as he photographs nasty immoralities. 

It's two months after living this empty life that he receives his first assignment abroad. He doesn't think much, just agrees and hands over his passport for visa processing. 

It would be a lie to say he doesn't find happiness in moving about. He finds himself moving closer to _something_ with every flight he takes. And he's all about figuring out what that something is.

  
  


今

  
  


Every day spent walking next to Mark Lee is a day well-spent. 

And Lee Donghyuck heavily appreciates the feeling of fullness that wells in his chest whenever he goes to sleep, the events of the day running on repeat in his head like a pretty broken cassette. 

It's been...different. He'd never imagined that at 26 he'd be hopping building to building, crossing misty streets and ordering fruit juice after midnight at a place where rowdy teenagers suck dick two feet from the drinks counter. All in the name of research (?). Whenever Donghyuck used to think of music, he used to think of concerts, television and perhaps the EDM scene that runs rampant in clubs. As a youngster, he's spent a lot of time around music without realising it.

Tonight is a night to relax after a boring day. Or at least that's what Mark said when he pulled Donghyuck aside earlier that evening, mouth pulled into the most tight-lipped smile ever. Donghyuck wonders how he does it.

As Mark leads him across this bridge, Donghyuck stops to _feel_ for a second. 

It's not even right to call it a bridge. It's narrow and a lot more tar than concrete. It's more of an overpass, if that's what they call those, but it's really long and only meant for pedestrians. At half past six, they've only bumped umbrellas with about half a dozen people. Below them, cars stand in a tense traffic jam, and if he's been noticing right, that wacky yellow car hasn't moved since he and Mark had been figuring out how to travel on the streetside fifteen minutes ago. 

It feels fresh. This might be the freshest place Donghyuck's been to this week and it's just a narrow floating street (albeit it's held up by pillars but whatever, it's above ground level and thinking this way makes it more magical).

(It's definitely not because Mark's shoulder had been rubbing against his before the clouds decided to stop crying on them unceremoniously. Mark just smells nice, better than the metallic scent of the city.)

Donghyuck's spent daylight discovering the most popular food joints in the city, then clicking pictures of students who are emblazoned with the heat of their passions. Just the day before, he spent pushing through jammed crowds of sweaty bodies to find the DJ responsible for running such horrendous music, with Mark's hand tugging at his jacket and shaking with laughter wracking through his body. 

He's read this analogy before : that life is like a book and every event is a chapter. Donghyuck is certain that right now, every moment he spends clinging onto this man is a page he's stolen from someone else's book. 

"Donghyuck!" Mark calls out, "Hurry up! You really have to see this!" His eyes -- good heavens, Donghyuck needs to learn creative writing for real -- always light up with an excitement so unreal, he's left tongue tied.

As the sun sets, it sheds a fiery glow onto the endless line of car hoods. It looks...mesmerising. Every single roof is emblazoned in orange, forming a sea of movement. The thought that each of these cars has someone driving them passes by Donghyuck, leaving his breath stuck in his throat.

"Have you ever jumped off a bridge before?" Mark asks, cheeks red as he shakes off the umbrella they'd been sharing. 

"You mean you have?" Donghyuck pretends to be shocked, memories of jumping into little lakes surfacing.

"More than jumped, I fell off accidentally," Mark laughs loudly, "Not off of here, but there's a massive bridge that runs over part of the Acheron, and I tumbled over when I was in middle school." 

"Just like that?"

"Well, it's embarrassing but I was being chased by a dog, luckily some older boys who were playing there saw me and saved me immediately," Mark smiles, wide and his lips still stick to each other as if they were glued. Donghyuck doesn't say anything because it's pretty. 

"That's valid, I'm glad you survived," He says instead, folding his arms and leaning against the wet railings. Mark follows.

"Yeah, yeah me too." 

"What makes you stay here, Mark? I don't know you enough to get a feel for it, but like, is it just a family thing or is it because you love it here?" Donghyuck wonders if the question is too personal to be asked on a bridge in the middle of Downtown, overlooking unmoving lives with a sky that darkens with every passing second.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." He adds, too conscious of his word choice.

"No, it's okay, actually I've been wondering similar things for a while now. I don't know how to put it concisely, but this is home now. It's difficult leaving home and this is the sort of home you can't leave because it's held at a standard. People want to come to Neo, so naturally it's difficult if someone wants to leave."

"Like New York? Or maybe Tokyo?" Donghyuck says.

"Yeah. It becomes questionable if someone from one of the big cities leaves to go to a not-big-city, right? I think from Neo, it's only acceptable to leave for a major metropolis." Mark answers, but he looks content. 

He has the face of a person who isn't thinking about leaving. He has a face Donghyuck has never seen in the mirror.

"Yesterday," he starts, "One of your students said something I've been wondering about," Donghyuck says. The thought didn't do much for the first few hours but then he'd actually heard Mark play more and more, and after seeing him carry a solo before club earlier that afternoon, Donghyuck has no idea why Mark didn't pursue being a professional. 

"Tell me?" He asks, tilting his head to get a better look at Donghyuck.

"You didn't finish university? Did you go to uni at all?"

It always eats at Donghyuck when he sees people who never went in for higher education. It's a different thing if they chose not to, because that must have brought them happiness of some sort, especially since it's their own decision. However people who wanted to and don't get to -- like his sister, a mother and a wife but with half a degree and nothing to prove of it -- he feels disheartened. 

Mark hums, bending to look below. He frowns before he straightens up and holds a hand out for Donghyuck. 

"Let's talk about it somewhere better?"

  
  


昔

  
  


It starts in 10th grade. Career counselling. 

What a farce, Mark thinks, staring at the form on his desk, tucked carefully under his pencil box. It flutters under the fan, mocking him because it knows he doesn't have the guts to fill it honestly. He wants to fold it into a paper plane and fly it across the room, aiming to land on his teacher's desk. 

The class representative -- a girl with long braids he doesn't know very well -- walks around distributing the rest of them. Mark stares at her back, a little confused, wondering if she knows what she wants to do with her future. She's active and responsible, there must be fantasies she lives through when no one is looking. Perhaps she doesn't dream of work; perhaps she dreams of travelling through open fields with a straw hat on her head. That suits her more.

Mark tucks his form into a notebook with a sigh. At this moment, he feels...vaguely all-knowing (?). He knows what things he is capable of and what lies far beyond his reach. 

Mark Lee is bright, perhaps not brilliant, but still, bright. He scores fairly well in school without putting in too much effort ( _imagine what you could do if you worked half as hard as your classmates_ ,) and he knows he isn't cut out for pursuing sports. But he's 15. He's only 15 and how is he supposed to know how the rest of his life will map out?

Most days, he can see himself ten years in the future, working at an illegal office desk and tallying numbers because he failed university exams.

On brighter days, he wishes to live in a small house by the sea, listening to the waves and eating cool watermelon with little Jisung. Ah, but Jisung will have grown by then. He wonders if the boy will be as tall as Mark's brother had been, or will he be even taller? When Mark is 25, Jisung will be 16, older than he is right now. The thought paralyses him.

The future is uncertain. And his crush always says one thing, unpredictability is the only constant. 

Mark doesn't feel 15. He feels trapped in a body three sizes too small to hold his soul, throat constricting under pressure because there are no zippers to unzip and no buttons to tear off, only skin, skin and skin-

Someone bumps into his desk, his pencil box falls off the edge and Mark swiftly catches it before it can hit the floor. 

"Nice reflexes man!" Next to him, Yukhei is smiling, all teeth and pink gums (and what a beautiful smile it is, to be blessed by his charms is a wonderful reason to be alive).

"Thanks," Mark says, pushing his chair back to turn towards the other, "Did you fill your form already?"

"I was born ready to fill this, dude, already filled in three of my dream professions," says Yukhei, eyes on the paper. 

Mark doesn't even have to ask, he knows what he's written, definitely something related to crime-solving. ("I want to bring justice!" Yukhei had announced, with sand in his hair and stars in his eyes when they were still too young to be left in a playground without adult supervision.)

"That's really cool," he says, smiling back.

He knows that if he asks anyone else, they'll jump at the chance to wax poetic about their sparkling futures. They have passions and hobbies they're good at, bad at, want to improve at. They all have something they want to pursue. Mark knows what the class ballerina will have written, he knows what the boy at the front desk has been aiming for. 

It's only him, wandering aimlessly like a fool, who has no idea how honest he is when he says there's something he would like to do.

Anyway, right now, he has a crush to impress and a small list of hobbies he could make use of. He wants to show off too. He wants to pretend he knows exactly where his life is headed. He wants to be one of those people with a perfectly detailed health insurance plan. 

"I'm thinking of--"

*

"Taeil hyung," he asks as they watch television one evening, "What made you so sure you wanted to study chemistry?"

There's some weird oriental movie running in the background, neither of them paying attention because it doesn't make too much sense. It's something Irene once told him his brother showed her on a date. How and why they got married, Mark doesn't understand (and frankly, with how long Irene has been a widow, he doesn't want to understand either).

"I liked it and I believed it was enough." Taeil says, face drowning in bright blues and greens.

"Is it enough?" 

"It is. Right now, I'm not as bothered about what I will become as much as I'm bothered about the hows. I want to be good but I also want some time before things are demanded of me."

"You speak in circles." Mark says. Those words pull him away from the moment, suspending him in an unfamiliar plane of existence. University students are a different breed and Taeil is a prime example.

"As if you don't," Taeil chuckles, "Whatever you choose, Mark, you will have to bear responsibility for its consequences, alone. Make it worthwhile."

*

And so he fills in the blank spaces, writes that he wants to pursue computer research and author novels on the side. He speaks more than one language, so maybe interpretation? How much do they earn? It must be a lot if Sherlock Holmes is to be believed, after all they're important enough to be present where secrets can be divulged. 

When he hands in the form two days later, his teacher looks at him with amusement in her eyes (or was it pity? Does she know something at her age that Mark ought to know right now?)

"Mark, every profession you've mentioned is different from each other," she notes, "Is there something you like best amongst these?"

He looks out the window, at the sports field where the track team runs faster than Mark's legs can ever carry him, away from the eyes trying to assess his worth like every other adult. Girls play badminton, fierce and speedy. Another team passes them, warming up for a few hours of soccer, Jungwoo amongst their ranks. 

"I don't know yet, but I hope I can achieve all of them in due time," He replies, a sweet smile on his face. If they ever want to fashion a new theatrical mask, they should use his face.

*

It happens again in 12th grade. Career counselling. 

An even bigger farce, Mark thinks, staring at the empty form that mocks him, yet again. It's riddled with creases from being folded and unfolded time and again. 

It's long past the submission date but their teacher doesn't bother. She prefers covering the syllabus according to her lesson plan, scratching theorems onto the board. Besides, half the class hasn't handed in their forms, because what would they even write? 

People speak of suffering but they never speak of time slowing down to supplement it. They don't tell you that every day is so eerily similar that life begins to look like one massive endless day where night and light, nothing matters, everything is about how little distance you have travelled and how far you will go if you're brave enough to see this journey through. It sucks. It sucks ass that there's no actual choice. 

His 10th grade class rep studies statistics during lunch. The class ballerina dropped dancing because she will have a better future once she's a university graduate. That boy who used to sit at the front now sits at the back and reads comics under the guise of being alive. And Mark.

Mark sits in class, eyes half open and ears permanently closed, doodling in the margins of his notebook because he doesn't...he doesn't even want to pursue higher education if it means he'll be like sheep being herded in the back of a pickup truck. If he is a sheep, he wants to walk on his own legs, even if it means he will stumble on a hill, break his back and die. At least, he will be facing the sky in earnest when he stops breathing. 

He looks at his form. He no longer has someone he wants to impress. It's a Mark Lee vs. Mark Lee kind of battle, both sides dressed in the same shade of nihilism. 

Mark is 17. He doesn't know what lies beyond 18. Ten-year plans be fucked. He will do what he can do in due time. 

If he can get into university, good for him. If he can't, good for the souls of his parents in heaven. His brother, much much older than him, against all odds, was a kind doctor. He wouldn't have wanted Mark to go through the stresses he had. Except for Irene's law office, there is no legacy left in the family and there's Renjun to succeed her, bright-eyed and sharp-tongued. 

("You want to be a lawyer?" Jaemin asks, sucking on the mouth of his juice box, licking up the last of melon milk. They're not supposed to be on the school roof and yet here they are, again.

"It'll ground me here, and I won't ever have to go back. Mom wanted me to live in Neo, I will live in Neo." Renjun says simply, shrugging his shoulders.

"And what about you, Nana?" Mark asks, splayed on his back, head cushioned on Renjun's legs.

"The lady wants me to go into politics, but I want to go into forensics. We're fighting as we speak," he laughs, "Mark? You have to fill those forms this year, don't you?"

"I don't know what to write to be honest."

"Go in for a coding course," Renjun says at once, "You're good and it's a useful skill. What do you think?" Both of them turn their heads to look at each other, lost in thought. It doesn't sound like a bad idea at all.

"Mark," Jaemin starts, leaning against the railing, "You've been playing instruments since forever, how do you feel about music?")

The teacher drones on and the classroom continues to collapse in on itself. There is nothing to see beyond the windows because there's only pounding rain. Maybe, if he pays close attention, he'd be able to find _something_ \-- but there's nothing, and Mark, like all the bodies around him, is living a life where every step seems counterproductive.

He pulls up Google, learns how to fold an origami crane and cuts the form into a square. 

At least he won't be wasting paper. 

  
  


昔

  
  


Of all the places to be found, Jaemin is hovering over the dryer in their laundry room. He stands next to a large bright blue cloth bag with mini rilakkuma faces printed on it, scrolling away on his phone without a single care in the world.

Mark knocks on the door before entering, grabbing Jaemin's attention.

"You're not here with clothes," He points at Mark's hands, "And there were no clothes when I came here. So have you finally come looking for me?" He chuckles. Mark can't tell if it's bitter or just one of Jaemin's eccentricities.

Now that he looks closely, behind the glasses Jaemin's eye bags have grown a sickly shade of violet. His skin looks sallow and even his hair falls limply into his face. 

"No, I'm not here for laundry, but I brought you something," Mark says, pulling out multiple sachets of dark hair dye from his cardigan pocket and holding them out in front of the other's face. Jaemin eyes them carefully, then bursts into another round of chuckles.

"I told you, you don't have to return hair dye to me, Mark, sure we're not as close as we used to be but we still-"

Mark shakes his hand, the sachets rustling, "Take them. You might need it soon."

Jaemin reaches out and accepts them with a small nod. 

"Might need hair dye soon? I told you I'm gonna stay pink for a while longer."

Mark sniffs then looks away, at the dryer that hasn't even been switched on. Judging by the look of things, the clothes inside are still wet. 

"Pink hair is very easily recognisable. People talk."

"Come here, Mark," Jaemin beckons him closer, dropping the sachets into his clothes bag and holding onto Mark's hands softly. Their hands are rough, both with calloused fingers and rugged palms that have seen years of hardships. It makes Mark feel closer to Jaemin than he should. 

"I'm very grateful for your concern, seriously," he says, "But you should also remember that I'm not as easily discoverable as people think. They might see me, but they can't touch me. You know this."

"I do."

"Your own hair's less black now. I'm sorry, the dye I lent you was a temporary one, are you sure you don't want to take these back?"

"I'm sure," Mark says, exhaustion bleeding into his voice. He doesn't appreciate feeling like this, like he's too old to be caring about people. Heart in heart, he knows he's not here to just care for Jaemin, he's here for more selfish reasons and Jaemin, as perceptive as ever, notices this. Mark knows and he can't do anything to keep himself away from the cost of his own intentions. 

Mark bites his lip and moves to leave the laundry room when Jaemin's voice startles him.

"Pink, or blond," It's eerily monotone the way he speaks, "Neither look very different at night, do they?" 

  
  


昔

  
  


“And I’d like to trust you on this. How far can I trust you?”

Yukhei’s silhouette has always been larger than Mark’s -- larger than life -- and it’s easy to think you can hide behind it when in fact, it’s a place embellished with teeth ready to bite off your ankles. 

Trust...trust is subjective, Mark decides, emptying the rest of his can and tossing it into a nearby bin. It nearly misses the mark -- threatens to hit the rim and fall onto the floor -- but by some chance it doesn’t. It falls right where he wants it to fall. Only if he could have any semblance of control when it comes to words.

“Just as much as you’d trust any old friend, Yukhei. We’re not friends anymore, but we used to be and people change over time.”

“Does that mean trusting you is a mistake?” 

Mark scoffs lightly, “I never said that. I just meant that it’s up to you to believe what you want to believe. If you want to keep an eye on me, you’re more than welcome. You won’t find anything worth suspecting.”

"What are you being so defensive for?" Yukhei asks. For a second, it's not Yukhei's voice, it's garbled through a filter of white satin and it mocks. And then there's laughter and Mark wishes he hadn't thrown his can because he'd like to crush it.

"You just accused me of what, murder? Because of past records? It's well within my rights to be defensive."

“It isn’t just you, Mark. I’ve heard the rumors. Golden hair, light brown hair...and even pink, they all look the same under low light don’t they?” Things that always come back. Things that circle and keep messing with your head. Mark has many of those, like punching people in the jaw-

Mark turns away. He isn’t required here anymore. The bureau has always been too much of a sock tied around his neck, tightening but never ripping in the right places. This conversation isn’t one he wants to have, so he won’t, after all this isn’t formal questioning. 

“As I said, we’re always welcoming any surveillance if that means it’ll satisfy your curiosity. I’ll see you around, Yukhei. Take care and don’t overwork yourself into madness, Jungwoo won’t be happy to hear I’ve been causing you stress.”

He doesn’t turn back, not when he signs out, not when he’s entering his car with raindrops sliding off his hair. He lets out a deep breath. Fuck. Fuck this and fuck everything, Mark has never learnt how to keep himself in check when feeling emotionally turbulent and he’s done it again, he’s clowned himself _yet_ again. It’s well past two when he pulls out of the parking and heads back home.

As the rain falls harder, Mark’s grip tightens around the steering wheel. He’s certain that tonight, he’ll have nightmares.

Nightmares with vicious words. Alcohol. Dirty hands and a dirty mouth. A limp body collapsing into his arms. White cloth soaking up mud. Eyes refusing to respond with the force of a concussion on the head. A bruise swelling up along a sharp jaw. And glitter. Flecks of glitter falling off his cheeks and onto cooling skin before he decided to run away from his sins.

And then he’ll dream of an equally shaken man boarding a public bus, choosing to sit next to him, tasting of fear, naivety and a mouthful of electric sunshine.

*


	8. (七) And we were fools, to think we were going somewhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a lot of talking, and a lot of underlying emotion (?), so heavy dialogue warning.
> 
> As usual, not edited. (And I haven't gotten around editing the previous chapters either…)
> 
> This chapter is here because of Uri, Nik and other friends who have taken the time to support this. I hope you are alright and in good health.
> 
> tw/cw : alcohol, panic attack, anxiety, mentions of blood, murder, drugs, organs, sex work.

今

  
  


The mayor of Neo -- as elusive and suspicious as he sounds -- seems to be someone everybody loves. It’s a little weird Donghyuck hasn’t seen his face across lamp posts or graffitied walls.

Donghyuck has been told how lovely mayor Jeong is at least thrice in the last hour alone. Thank you, ladies in the elevator, ladies at the dinner buffet and grandma carrying a branded suitcase. He doesn't know if the man's just that handsome to have brainwashed everyone or if he's really worth his salt.

Then he remembers Mark mentioning him, Jungwoo being as well connected as he is and decides he has to be at least a 7/10. Right now, with the heavy clouds hanging over Neo skies and flickering hallway lights, Donghyuck is convinced he's just living out a sad shounen protagonist's life. All the men around him will be sculpted of flesh donated by Adonis, carved right out to expose his unbeating heart because of course, a man that lovely could never exist past the boundaries of imagination. Then suddenly, he'll run into his nemesis -- perhaps that pink-haired murderer guy -- who will have a frenzied look in his eyes and a smear of blood on his cheeks.

But that murderer guy isn't someone who scares Donghyuck anymore (pft, his mother is scarier. He thinks). It's been a few days, nearly a week. There's been zero attempts at sculling him, sniping him, or even stabbing him. Safety, he maintains, is a subjective experience (He snorts, words starting with 's' all seem so funny in his head).

He pulls out his phone as he crosses the hallway and takes the turn that leads him to the lobby. He might as well hit the search engines. He at least ought to know the mayor's face if nothing else, what if some edgy teenager decides to ask him for help with history homework at a bistro -- statistically impossible -- or what if he runs into the mayor? And not recognise him? Now that would be hilarious, absolutely Donghyuck-grade foolery.

The network bar only flashes upto two. As he types into the search bar, he realises he doesn't remember if this mayor Jeong has a first name. Maybe his first name is mayor. Mark must have said it but it didn't register in his head.

He backspaces and types in 'mayor of Neo' when he feels a sudden impact on his shoulder. His phone slips out of his grasp and falls onto the one stretch of floor that wasn't carpeted. 

"I'm so sorry, sir!" The bellboy flails, massive bags of laundry stacked in his hands, obscuring his vision.

"It's okay," Donghyuck grimaces, immediately kneeling to check the damage. Marble floor : not a scratch. Phone : a web of cracks running throughout the screen, propagating from one edge. The bellboy is gone, his job more precious to him than Donghyuck's only fucking phone. He really should have brought a spare phone.

Donghyuck takes in a deep breath and holds it for a few seconds before heaving out.

Safety definitely isn't subjective anymore. It's objective and it means he should really pay more attention when he's walking. You _have_ to be vigilant. At least it was just a bellboy. In a worse scenario, he could have walked into a serial killer, which would be extremely frightening yet fitting because that seems to be the newest theme of his life -- to be running into unnecessary people.

It's hopefully just the screen. He'll go Downtown and get it checked. Jungwoo told him about a cheap electronics repair shop, and it makes him smile wryly. What a series of disasters his life has become. 

Even if the shop is cheap, it's going to cost something grand because he, like the smart human he is, decided to buy a limited edition phone with a weird screen ratio. This sucks.

He turns it over in his palms to inspect, a few scratches, a little nick near the volume button. The screen brightens up under his touch -- thank god the display isn't entirely dead -- but he has difficulty punching in the correct password. The calibration was shaken up. Fuck, it's going to be useless now.

In normal circumstances, he would tap on the power off option, order alcohol and sleep it off. Then he would wake up with one extra piece of knowledge -- that his phone is dead. And perhaps another bit of information. Of the Neo mayor's full name. Everything else would be packed in his bags and shipped to Seoul while he would look for a nice river to wash his sins and then he would visit a priest to get exorcised before deciding to do anything else. It’s as if he’s been struck by a curse. Or pinned down by a strong will, a strong connection unlike anything he’s heard of, but Donghyuck doesn’t let this connection overpower him. It stops right before touching his skin. Once he allows himself to be overwhelmed, there will be no going back.

These aren't normal circumstances. Before he can put his phone away, the search results load and show up a few images. Well. If Donghyuck wasn't sure of his psychic abilities before, he is now. Jeong Jaehyun.

He ran into this man just days ago. (The day he witnessed a murder, the day he met Mark.)

  
  


昔

  
  


For someone who's been held on a pedestal all his life due to exceptional brilliance, Na Jaemin can be an absolute moron. 

Impulsivity and the lack of coherence are two traits that do not mix well but those are the only defining characteristics he carries the moment emotions flood his measly brain. 

Everything's a mess now. A mess, mess, mes-

Nuko meows loudly -- louder than she has in days -- and jumps off her perch on the bedpost. She trots closer to Jaemin's legs, paws gently tugging at the hem of his pants. 

Jaemin takes in a deep breath through his mouth and huffs loudly before gathering her in his arms. He is certain that if he is forced to think for another second his brain will explode. He doesn't like the idea, cleaning chunks of blasted-brain off his otherwise fairly clean walls will be a nightmare for whoever ends up with the task. He redirects his attention to Nuko, eyes throbbing.

She desperately needs a bath with how dusty her fur has gotten overnight. She nuzzles into his palm and then flicks out her tongue to poke at his skin. Nuko's always thought Jaemin's fingers were some kind of cat-snack, and now that line of thought has extended to the entirety of his hand. 

Jaemin picks up her paw, prods it with his fingers, the soft pink -- when he notices something brown and dry under her nail-beds, too crusty to be earth.

Dried blood? 

He rubs at it carefully to confirm and little flakes fall into his palm. He's about 85% sure this is blood, he'll need to test it for surety.

"Nuko," he whispers, "What were you up to all night?" Nuko meows back at him softly. Her ears twitch. 

"What happened with you, baby? Where did you go? What did you see?"

*

"It's blood." Taeil confirms, hunched over the paraphernalia on his study desk.

There's no one else at home -- absolute discretion -- and while Nuko squirms around in Jaemin's arms, still coming to terms with being subjected to sudden nail filing and a bath. She's growing old and she doesn't take to these things very kindly if it's not at her own pace.

He sets her onto the marble floor and she stretches with a scratchy mewl before trotting away to hide in the covers that hang off the edge of Taeil's bed.

"Could you estimate how long it's been since...?" Jaemin trails off, eyes following Nuko intently. He doesn't let her out of the building because of her age, but she managed to get in touch with a wound or possibly something worse. Jaemin shudders at the thought. Is someone in the house injured?

"I can't for certain. Not without going to the lab, but I'd take a rough guess and say it's fresh, no more than a day old."

The knowledge that Nuko hasn't been hanging around old corpses brings him some peace. He'll still have her examined and given the necessary shots, he'll also have to sanitise everything around but at least there's no immediate risk of disease -- Oh well, there's too many possibilities, Jaemin thinks grimly, the whole place will have to be washed down anyway.

"Worried about cleaning up?" Taeil asks, capping his vials and storing them in their box. 

Jaemin nods in reply. He folds his arms, leans against Taeil's desk by the hip.

"Hyung?" 

Taeil hums then pushes back to wheel around to his cupboard.

"What do you think about this?"

"About the blood? I'll have to ask you to keep Nuko inside more ofte-" Taeil says but is cut off when Jaemin waves a hand and tilts his head to look at an obscure point on the wall.

"I feel like I've made a mistake. I feel unsettled."

"Do you know where you've made the mistake?" Taeil looks up at him through large circular lenses, eyes always wise and gentle.

"I do. And I… I might have pulled some innocent people into something I shouldn't have. I got too swayed and couldn't make a clean decision." Jaemin speaks in a low voice. He can't think of anything except for negative consequences.

"Did they refuse to take part?" 

"They can't. It's the men that work with me. Yesterday, two of them were found dead at their posts."

"Is it a rival gang or something?" Taeil asks, voice lowering to match Jaemin's.

"The men killed were guarding a blood collection campsite, the one we outsource from. A few hours ago I received a call confirming theft. Why would someone steal blood?"

"In all honesty, there's quite a few reasons why but I'll believe there's vampires in Neo and move on. I'm a normal person Jaemin, getting involved with such stuff is dangerous for me. If someone came for my head --" Taeil points to his temple and then to his wheelchair, "-- I won't be able to run away."

"Any ideas though? You work with these things daily." Jaemin's face breaks into a wry smile.

"Nothing you haven't thought of yet." Taeil answers, rolling away to pick Nuko up and place her on the bed.

Blood transfusions, surgeries with no records, illegal transplants or heavy injuries that stand at danger of being reported. Or plain theft. Selling blood underground at higher prices in places where it's needed. It sounds... sacrilegious, so to say. However, there's little else that would make sense with the amount stolen -- 45 units of whole blood, a few of each type with extremely close expiration dates. 

"Anyway, it's Mark's birthday tomorrow, did you buy him a gift? I wanted to get him something but I have no idea what." Taeil changes the subject, gently smoothing out the comforter for Nuko to lie down on.

"We haven't been speaking a lot." Jaemin pushes away from the desk and dusts his palms against the silk of his shirt.

"Doesn't mean you can't get him a gift."

"I will text him, I am not sure if he would rather talk to me face to face. It's a decision that is entirely his."

"After living in the same house for nearly a decade, it's still been two years of broken communication?" Taeil remarks. It's difficult to ascertain if he's amused or bitter.

"I left it to him to reach out, after all, he lost his family to a mistake made by me."

"You make an awful lot of mistakes, Jaemin."

"That one was a necessity, nobody could have predicted Irene's death, not even me, not even hyung." The room is on the ground floor and it's not supposed to feel so stuffy but it does, even with the air conditioning on full blast.

"Mark doesn't hold it against you, you know that right?" 

It's gruelling to imagine the torment swimming in Mark's eyes again, a thread snapping of extreme tension, an unspoken agreement to let their bond wither away as they stood over Irene's grave. 

"I do. Which is why I'm worried even more, I even thought… I even decided it was alright to bring him off his current track. To ask for his help but he's innocent? Fucking hell, this sounds so pretentious-" Jaemin sighs heavily and runs a sweaty hand through his hair.

"It _is_ pretentious but I know you Jaemin." Taeil looks into his eyes, "All of us know you… always remember that none of us are foolish enough to be swept along with your antics, not unless we trust them. Innocent? We've all been through too much to be innocent." 

"... Do I want him back or not? Is it just the void Renjun's left behind for a while?" Jaemin knows he's speaking without filter but Taeil has this effect where he can't stop. Normally, Jaemin knows how much to speak and where his words hold impact, but in the confines of his home, in front of one of the few people who bothered to stick by him despite seeing him grow into who he's become today, the tight grip on his tongue loosens and let's it flop around his mouth forming words he can't feel.

Taeil leans back in his place and considers before answering, "I don't really know the answer to that. I'm not you, and I'm not part of the complicated equations surrounding you, but I see where you're coming from. Do you want to protect him perhaps? He's old enough to have children of his own, he's older than you are, I think you keep forgetting that."

"What if I just miss him? We were never very close, but I did always appreciate his presence."

"Maybe. Maybe you crave someone who will understand you, but from a fresh perspective? It's difficult to put into words, but you get the gist of what I'm saying, don't you?"

"..." _That also scares me_ , Jaemin wants to say, but he can't. Not when he's already divulged more than he wanted. 

"We don't have to talk about this anymore," Taeil says, kind and he extends a hand for Nuko, who rolls around and touches it with her paw, "Just some food for thought, if he doesn't hate you, doesn't that mean he would like to reconnect with you someday? For whatever reason. If that day comes and he approaches you first... you can't deny him something he wants because you're afraid it will have bad consequences."

  
  


今

  
  


"Did you know," Mark speaks, eyes glowing violet under the neon strobe lights, "In an orchestra performance, as there's more people in the hall and the longer the performance goes on," He picks his glass and brings it closer to his lips, warm, seemingly wet, a sultry tongue poking through, "The strings tend to get flatter and the wind instrument get sharper."

Donghyuck swallows, sweat tinged air filling his lungs, making him feel drunk when not a single drop of alcohol is running through his system.

"I didn't," he replies, "I've never dabbled with instruments."

"I have a feeling you'd be good. You have such knobbly fingers. If they were any longer they'd look like knotted branches." Mark says, then laughs before sipping at his watermelon juice. 

It's infuriating, how sexy he makes _watermelon juice_ with the way he chases after stray drops with the tip of his tongue. Donghyuck has a newfound fixation with that, that _mouth_. He's felt it on his own once before, but the memories slip away with every sunrise. He has to feel it hot on his skin again. 

"Do they tell you these things or do you have to learn them yourself? The flat and sharp thing." Donghyuck asks, ignoring the fingers hovering around his own. He won't give in just yet. 

Mark always looks simple -- even now, his coat set aside, he looks out of place with floppy hair, a baby blue button up and beige pants. But that's how he is. Donghyuck runs his eyes over the veins pressing through the surface of Mark's arms. One paper cut and it'll be over. His own arms are veiny, but he takes pride in soaking up the sun as wonderfully as he does, a tone darker sometimes when he's been in the open for too long, his veins disappearing under the tan. He hates paling, hates being confined to a desk and overhead lights that make anyone look sickly.

Mark seems to be having similar thoughts, he guesses, with the way he gazes at Donghyuck, eyes dark. Donghyuck's out of place too, he guesses, in casual wear and a rose lemon spritzer fizzing in one hands. A lady passes by their table, chuckling deeply, glitter falling from her dress wherever she goes. 

Somewhere behind them -- where neither of them bother to look because the only person who matters is the one sitting across them on the tiny round table on hard metal stools -- people whoop in excitement as the DJ changes tracks. Horrible taste, Donghyuck mouths. Mark agrees. The lights swish past them, and Donghyuck wishes he could live without blinking. He'd like to be a snake, or at least grow nictitating membranes and do away with eyelids.

"Surprisingly, they do teach you. Although I would have learned more if I'd stayed in school." Mark finally answers.

"So you actually didn't finish university. How are you still-"

"Teaching? Neo high -- don't look at me like that -- is where I studied. Being an alumnus was the only thing that did it I guess, after my accolades. I used to compete a lot when I was younger, so that worked in my favour." 

Donghyuck, tongue in cheek, leans forward and urges Mark to continue. The older shrugs, continues sipping till it's not enough and downs the rest of his glass in one gulp. His Adam's apple bobs, and Donghyuck has the sudden urge to bite it.

 _Shut the fuck up, horny brain_ , he chides.

"Did you ever think of going back?" He asks, tearing his gaze away to look at the busy bar counter instead.

"I did… but not for music. Although that didn't work out either, I dropped out again. That was just two years ago," he says.

"Same reasons?" Could it be financial stress? But wasn't Mark close to big people like Jungwoo and the mayor back then, it's a bit of a stretch really, but wouldn't they help him stay at university, wouldn't they at least help him get a loan?

"The first time, I don't have an explanation for that to be honest, the second, my sister-in-law passed away. It left me as Jisung's legal guardian and I think I told you before, but I'm the only blood relative he has," There, again, Mark talks about Jisung but doesn't even bat an eye at the implication that he grew up without close family, "So I took up extra jobs, lots of part-times, some tutoring. He has an inheritance but I want him to save it for when he's studying further."

"Is that why he works too? I don't know about the work culture here, but it's not uncommon in Seoul to see young students working, I worked two separate jobs at local markets for a few years before going into freelancing." Donghyuck says, throat loosening up with the chill of his drink.

"What did you freelance in? Photography?" Mark asks, expression picking up with interest.

"I'll tell you if you tell me what you studied." Donghyuck smirks, leaning forward on folded arms, peering up at Mark.

"Hmm, fair proposition. Bachelor of Music, with a performance and composition focus, then after I dropped out in my last year, I took to programming, messed around with many courses, finally cleared the exam to get into a computer science degree and then. You know, dropped out of that too."

"Aren't you the definition of overeducated and under qualified?"

"I believe so too, except I barely remember anything I've learnt. I have to brush up on theory before taking class every day, not great." He laughs, adorable. Donghyuck wants to bite his nose.

"Hmm… So, will you believe me if I told you I hung around a porn star and posed as his boyfriend?" A glass breaks near the counter and people rush away, smothering the tables in heat and the thick scents of their deodorants. Mark's focus however, is where it should be and Donghyuck basks in it.

"What the-" 

"It's true, it happened, just for a while though. I used to frequent a lot of bars and um, shady establishments," Donghyuck laughs at how wide-eyed Mark goes, "That's where we met and he needed someone to show off. I was pretty-"

"You're still very pretty," Mark murmurs behind his palm.

"- And he was willing to pay. Worked well for a few months. Then I went into photography -- I actually jumped courses -- and I used to take pictures for their circle before my sister found out. She threatened to tell mom that I wasn't studying," he sighs heavily, of course, with her unplanned pregnancy she had been off the rocker, mad before she fell into melancholy, "Then I worked around campus, cafés, bistros, the like before I met my ex-girlfriend. Things got complicated there."

"Is it okay to ask what happened?" There's a tentative hitch in his voice and Donghyuck warms at that, leaning closer and Mark follows, glass abandoned, elbows covered in rolled cotton knocking against elbows completely bared.

"We opened our relationship, my best friend and I were dating another pair of best friends. He didn't want to open up but we did. Caused some rifts between the girls as well, lots of relationship drama and then something went wrong with her other boyfriend so she tried to get me to stop sleeping around."

"That's, I can't understand that. I've never been in a relationship like that but it does seem stressful," Mark admits, voice low enough that Donghyuck has to strain his ears. He nods in response.

"And it's time consuming. I was good with that back then but it wasn't always to my taste. Looking back, she wasn't ready either, she's happily married now, good for her."

"Did you love her?" His eyes sparkle blue and purple, lips opening to form a circle. _What a romantic_.

"I didn't. I was attached back then but my best friend's relationship fell apart at the same time, so that put off the blow for later."

"Wow. That's, quite something. A lot." Mark licks his lips in time with the music dropping. It's more sensual now, with how Donghyuck can feel their breaths mingling.

"Don't you have misadventures of your own to tell me?"

Mark looks down at his lap, eyelashes fanning prettily against pale skin, everything dipped in a neon glow. He squirms and below the table, their calves rub against each other, warm leg brushing with warm leg, so much cloth but so little patience. Neither of them move away.

"Not like yours. I haven't been in a relationship in years and I don't. I don't sleep around as often, maybe once a year? I don't know, it's been very long."

"Are you… asexual, Mark?" He asks, fingers reaching out to twist in the folds of Mark's sleeve.

"I'm not opposed to having sex, just that I don't enjoy it if I don't like the person."

"Hypothetically, if someone who's around you an awful lot --" _me_ , "-- Wants to have sex with you, and you've kissed before --" _fucking me_ , "-- Would you consider it?"

"Do you want an honest answer?" Mark's ears and neck turn a violent shade of red, pretty, dangerous.

Donghyuck nods: glass icy, mind whirring.

"It depends. If I'm attracted to them, I might be okay with anything not penetrative, but if they make me like them enough, then sure?"

"Is it alright if I make you like me?"

For a second, the rest of the world shatters into fragments, gently, then like dust, scatters away. There's only them. Their skin, the chemistry, the immeasurable affinity. 

"It'll break my heart when you leave, but okay." And for another second, Mark's words refuse to register in Donghyuck's head. He'll leave. He has to leave Neo, and why is it such a foreign thought when less than an hour ago, he had been ogling the streets from a bridge, wondering how people find home. His thoughts spin but don't stop and he realises there is no stopping, not when his heart flutters.

"Make me." Mark leans even closer as he speaks, Donghyuck can see the patches of sweat and blush in his cheeks, his moles, the subtle curve of his nose. Most of all, his words feel like they're being fed to him, lips barely at a distance. "Make me like you enough to kiss in the open, without any shame."

"It's sad you feel shameful about kissing in the open, I like the thrill of knowing I have eyes on me," Donghyuck replies, teasing.

"Too bad you want me then." Mark tilts his head, away from the space they'd been sharing.

"Will you kiss me now? Do you already like me enough to kiss me?" They have spent almost a week together, stuck to each other by the hip, enjoying every moment. Donghyuck doesn't even understand why. They know each other and they know nothing, and it makes this -- whatever they have sizzling between them -- that much more alluring. It's like a siren call, except no one's being bathed in their own blood.

"We work together," Mark counters, his leg pushing closer till all Donghyuck feels is an urge to tangle with each other and fall onto the floor.

"An arrangement you made," he replies, breathily.

"It might be arbitrary but it's real. You've signed documents."

"And did they say you can take legal action against me if I manage to seduce you, mister Lee?"

"No, not really."

They do say that you must go and get what you want. Grab your opportunities by the neck, lick at their wet lips and whisper heatedly into their mouth until they give way.

"Why?" Donghyuck asks, Mark's pulse rushing endlessly beneath his palm.

"Because why not?" 

And there's so much exhilaration hiding beneath Mark's words that it would be impossible to keep him at arm's length.

Donghyuck pulls him in, the edge of the table digging into his abdomen, but he can't bring himself to care when Mark opens his mouth for him, so, so pretty, so malleable.

Their lips move in tandem, chapped skin snagging onto sharp teeth, a spike of pain and the oblivion that follows only when there's nothing left in the world but feeling. Mark gasps and Donghyuck presses in, tugging at his lower lip with his own and suckling till there's a strong grip tugging at his hair, guiding him to kiss deeper, to chase a taste Donghyuck feels is forbidden.

Kissing Mark feels like being high, Donghyuck thinks, before he drowns in the viscous heat between them.

  
  


昔

  
  


Jaemin's ever-trusted electronic scale beeps as he lowers the last pouch onto it. It takes a little fumbling around and digging into the shipment pack to recover the corner dregs to balance the exact weight, then seals it with heat. The corner doesn't curl in as neatly as he would have liked, but meh, it's what's inside that gets him the cash not the way it's packed. With the current demand for levothyroxine across the western border, it's easy to hide packets of cannabis in the crate right under massive packets of unbottled pills. He just needs to seal and demarcate the goods properly before it's time for drop-off. 

It's smuggling. It's illegal. But illegal is how Na Jaemin has learnt how to breathe along the rundown edges of Neo.

It's a fairly good day to be honest. He video called his sunshine for a whole three hours while working the night shift. The shipments for his newest specimens came in right on time and he hasn't even had to meet an actual idiot today. Oh, and Mark replied to his birthday text. A bonus.

He's done sealing the kilogram he received in the mail and setting it aside with neat labels on them when the bell to the main door tinkles. 

His apothecary -- the 22/11 -- is strictly off limits for anybody who isn't him. Before he can reach out for his gun, hidden in a nearby drawer, the main door shuts close and a familiar voice calls out for him. Jaemin steps over to the doorway to take a peek, sliding the thin curtain aside with a heavy arm.

A brown trenchcoat, long umbrella and soft wavy hair. It's Jaehyun.

*

Within a wooden cupboard away from all his other paraphernalia, Jaemin keeps a bottle of strong calvados and a brandy snifter. He's more of a white wine person himself but there are expenses you shoulder when it comes to siblings.

Jaehyun loves the aroma of brandy, the way the bowl of the snifter is shaped -- just the right amount dripping onto the right place on your tongue -- and to take it a notch further, he loves it candle-warmed. Jaemin doesn't understand why, it makes the otherwise gentle taste harsh and if he wants a strong alcohol, he shouldn't be vying for brandy in the first place.

The calvados -- Jaehyun's favourite -- holds the loveliest scent of apples and wood. It brings back childhood memories, from days he used to run around with Jaemin on his shoulders and both of them would tumble over the slight incline of the church grounds. There are innumerable fragments swimming in Jaemin's head, of stealing Apples on the Lord's land, committing the smallest of sins when his arms were thinner than the branches he climbed. Apple trees still dot that expanse, except now, it's not a land of crunchy grass and lively prayers. It's a graveyard. The same one where their family grave was relocated upon their grandmother's passing. 

His own name is etched in the stone in cursive lettering. How pretentious. They didn't even bother to pick an epitaph for him.

"What brings you here?" Jaemin asks, carefully measuring an ounce and a half into the glass. He considers serving it neat and hand-warmed but Jaehyun's smile has been strained since the moment he caved into the armchair. He sighs and pulls out a small candle.

"Nothing. I just came to see you, it's been a while."

"What did you tell your secretary? That you're coming to see me?" Jaemin scoffs, lighting the candle and quickly heating up the alcohol.

"Exactly what I told her." 

"I've been pronounced dead legally, you can't meet a dead person." He's become awfully repetitive lately. Those words keep spilling out of his mouth before he can feel he has a tongue.

"I said I'm visiting your grave, not a lie in the least. This place --" He leans forward and runs a finger across the wooden panelling of an elaborate specimen chest. It comes away without a speck of dust, pristine like every other shelf and every small box within the confines of these four walls, "-- is where you will be buried. I don't see you finding peace anywhere else."

Jaemin agrees with the sentiment wholeheartedly. The 22/11 isn't just his apothecary, it's home ground. If he doesn't count the workspace he's built in the backroom, the place is small, there's barely sufficient area to walk with how packed it is, growing smaller with every new addition he drags in to join his collection. There's less than five feet of space between the vintage counter where Jaemin stands and the broken-in piece of furniture Jaehyun has decided to make his emotional fort. This is most definitely where he would want to be laid to rest.

"So," Jaemin starts, handing over the glass to Jaehyun. It won't start cooling anytime soon but Jaehyun still touches the bowl with a finger as he holds onto the stem, "Why are you really here?"

"Emotional baggage. Yours and mine, and I'm not ready to sort mine out so I decided I'll come listen to you." 

"I thought we left behind doll games in fifth grade."

"You're not my doll but you are my brother, you can't change the fact. You can't change your DNA no matter how hard you try."

"I'm not trying to either, I'm not mad about anything, why would I want to change my DNA?" Jaemin brushes him off, tone light and too playful to be trusted.

"You're worked up over a ton of things, I can tell. I give it two days before you blow up and do something stupid. You have no control over your rationality." Jaehyun says, then takes a carefully measured sip, eyes fixed on Jaemin's side profile.

"How would you know? I'm perfectly alright." He's just slightly perturbed, not a big problem.

"I saw the security order for Chenle, and I heard you wished Mark on his birthday, but you couldn't even do it in person. Also what's going on with this organ stuff? I've been hearing rumours floating around office and I thought you'd have answers."

It's been a good day so far. Jaemin dips behind the curtain to avoid Jaehyun's sharp, all-knowing gaze. He walks over to the mini food fridge and it creaks open, but there's nothing inside. He'd really been wishing there would be something cold enough to freeze him over. He rummages past bottles of ethyl alcohol and finds a small coconut water pack. It's probably expired and not worth the risk, but he can't go out empty handed now. 

He's been standing inside for three minutes -- three minutes too long -- which is an invitation to be interrogated.

"You could just have brandy too!" Jaehyun shouts and Jaemin replies with a non-committal hum. Maybe he'll have to drink nothing and be shot with the volley of questions Jaehyun's brought with him. After more deliberation (more time bought to prepare himself for the conversation he knows is going to happen) he picks up a small bottle of water.

He breaks open the seal and downs a few mouthfuls. It doesn't help reduce the caustic burn at the back of his throat.

"You didn't wish Mark in person, and you didn't go visit Chenle over the weekend either. It's eating you up, isn't it?" Jaehyun says at the cost of being repetitive.

It's always the same things, always the same people circling Jaemin's life just beyond the periphery where he can't touch because ghosts are meant to be corporeal, not made of hot flesh and virulent blood. How is he supposed to formulate an answer for a question that doesn't seem to be rhetorical, but is.

"I texted them both," he swerves, leaving the curtain pushed aside as he walks closer to Jaehyun.

"Since when were you a texting kind of guy? I mean you do have the guts to call the mayor out in such a place just to talk, so many times," Jaehyun chuckles grimly. 

"And what about it?" Jaemin counters, perching himself on top of a heavy cabinet across Jaehyun, "Besides, what's the organ thing about?"

Jaehyun shifts, fingers tracing the stitching in the armchair. 

"You're doing something."

"Nothing, I swear upon your life," Jaemin grins.

"You want me dead, I know, but whatever you're doing, wrap it up quickly. Elections are just a few months away, the internal pre-elections --" 

"The rigged sham," Jaemin interrupts.

"-- occur in a month. I'll assume you're cleaning someone's mess and sit silent on this."

"Just a few outsiders who thought encroaching my territory was a good idea. Nothing you need to worry about." 

Silence falls between them as Jaehyun focuses on his alcohol. Jaemin doesn't like burdening Jaehyun despite everything he does to irritate the older. He's better off worrying about filthy politicians and how to leech off their money instead of what dirty deeds keep happening in Neo.

"You always get extra touchy when things involve them," Jaemin says in a small voice, his throat scratchy. Jaehyun needs to learn how to let things go, "Even more when Chenle's direct safety is concerned-" 

"Chenle is smart and resourceful. He is more than capable of managing situations by himself," Jaehyun counters. The amount of trust he has in their younger brother is astounding, given Chenle's barely in university and on the verge of dropping out every other day. "Mark reminds you of yourself, lost and tired, dare I say, lonely-" 

Ah, what would Jaemin give to staple Jaehyun's mouth shut, to rub off that secretive smile, to seal away that tongue that loves taking a dig at everything. It's not possible, not with how Jaemin wants to humour his idiosyncratic brother. He looks carefully at Jaehyun's face. He's always been one for immaculate appearances but his coat has the finest dusting of drying mud at the hem, there's no product in his hair and no efforts have been made to pull it back into a professional hairstyle. If Jaemin had to take a shot in the dark, he'd say Jaehyun hasn't been sleeping enough for a week.

"Fine," Jaemin concedes, "I've been a little stressed about him, but it's not important hyung, he's a grown man and he's been doing so well recently, he's made good decisions and it's led to a peaceful life. You know how rare it is to have such a silent life."

"And you'll still pull him back to your side if presented the slightest of chance?" 

"I don't understand you," Jaemin turns away to turn on the overhead lights as it gets steadily darker, "Diplomatic talks. Go right over my head." 

"I learned to be diplomatic just to keep you alive all these years, how ironic. Mother really thinks you'd still be the better mayor-" 

"I'm not discussing this again." 

"See, you're stressed out. Take a break, go gatecrash Renjun's honeymoon, go back in some sunshine, do something other than concerning yourself with crime for a few days." Jaehyun says. At this point, Jaemin isn't sure why Jaehyun came here. Was it to instigate him? To warn him? Is something going to happen and he should be careful?

"I could say the same for you, Mayor." 

"Between the two of us, you're smarter but also infinitely more stupid when you let emotions take the reigns. Don't create a mess. Think things through, always." 

"Are you saying I'm making bad decisions?" Jaemin mocks. There's a sardonic smile on his face and Jaehyun mimics it, but makes it better.

"When have you made a good one, Jaem?" he replies. He brings the glass up to his lips, the leftover brandy numbing his tongue the same way Jaemin's fragile temper sizzles.

  
  


今

  
  


Mark Lee feels like a pearl fresh out of its clam, ready to be polished and strung onto a high-quality thread with other beads. He feels giddy, the best kind of giddy where his thoughts have stopped overlapping and his cheeks burn with the ghost-like memory of plush lips pushing against his own. He traces his lips with light fingers. How long had it been since he'd kissed someone sober? He doesn't remember. 

There is a mountain ahead of him -- the peak hidden behind clouds with wispy tails -- but suddenly, climbing it seems possible. 

There is a rough timeline sketched out in his head. It starts from the evening before his birthday and stretches upto late last night with rough crosses wherever he suspects something big happened. The first, and arguably the biggest cross is on the dinner night. All vivacity drains out the tips of his fingers the moment he thinks about it. Mark owns up to his mistakes, always has, and will continue to, but not unless he's certain this isn't an elaborate set-up to convict him despite having no hand in whatever dirty argument the people of this city are fighting.

He switches off the light and settles into his cushioned chair. Currently, Mark has no clue what role Donghyuck is playing in the grand scheme of things. There's something about him -- other than the way his proximity sends fire licking up his veins, something entirely new that he Mark has no idea how to dissect -- that convinces Mark that Donghyuck is privy to information he shouldn't have.

A flash of guilt overtakes him. He's genuinely attracted to Donghyuck, but he's also… also taking advantage of his skills? his background? this nagging suspicion that the man _knows_?

Is kissing Donghyuck and getting handsy with him… wrong? Mark has knowingly been sticking close to him for reasons he doesn't quite understand.

(He does, he just doesn't want to put a label to his sudden affinity for touch, especially with someone who could prove to be beneficial. It's not wrong if the attraction came first and the ulterior motives second? Right? Mark likes to believe he would still fall to his knees for Donghyuck if the younger wasn't an embodiment of danger and the unknown.) 

As his computer boots up and his arm slips into the sleeve of a cold hoodie, there's light knocking at his door. Instinctually, he knows it's Jaemin. He knows it's time to hear of the favour Jaemin had mentioned a few days ago. There's goosebumps all over skin, silent but telling the same way his feet touch the floor soundlessly despite the lack of an audience. The walls, Mark thinks, the walls are always listening.

He nearly stumbles over an extension cord -- the haphazard mess in his room finally coming to focus -- but manages to catch himself before swinging the door open.

It is Jaemin, wrapped in a massive pink cardigan that could easily fit three people. It leaves something sad in Mark's mouth.

"Good evening, did I disturb you?" Jaemin asks, an unfeeling smile on his face.

"No need for such eloquence, Jaem. Come in." 

"I was thinking more along the lines of etiquette, you love beating around the bush when you're talking." Jaemin says, walking into the room, heading straight for the bed.

"Mhm, but not when I'm being talked to." He replies as he closes the door gently.

"Why does your room feel smaller than the others?" 

Jaemin sits onto the edge of the bed, right on top of the comforter, and leans back on his hands, neck craning to look around the room.

"I bought this cabinet --" Mark pats the hard-pressed wood of said cabinet, "-- earlier this year. I had a lot of stuff just lying around, now they can rot away in a place they belong." He sits back in his chair and pulls his legs up, knees tucked tightly under his chin.

The monitor flashes with colour -- a pretty blue -- and stays on the password screen. Mark doesn't turn towards it.

"By the way," Jaemin interrupts his line of thought, "Have you heard from Renjun? At all? I have a feeling something's wrong. He never goes this long without replying, you know how he is, he starts feeling abandoned."

Mark shakes his head, "I haven't but that's not surprising given he uses nothing but common-net based apps. Excessive dedication to Neo."

"What about it? Don't all those work abroad?" Jaemin tilts his head, face marred with confusion.

"Oh, haven't you heard? The official notice was posted today afternoon. The common-net is malfunctioning so they closed international servers till they find what's wrong."

Jaemin only hums in response, eyes fixed on a faded k-pop poster. In the dim lighting of the room, he drowns in muted blues and grays, which Mark strongly thinks don't suit his lithe frame half as much as the pink does. But he's Na Jaemin, and somehow, he makes everything about him. 

Every story in the world holds a piece of Jaemin -- Mark is envious of it -- and even if it doesn't, there's multitudes hidden beneath the mask of words. There will always be a speck of belonging, of cruelty perhaps, of emotion that needs to be tamed, that Jaemin is capable of absorbing into the extensive non-linear narrative of his own life. There's barely anything left to discover -- all dinosaurs have been dug up, all earth has been tilled and upturned -- and yet, there will be stones worth uncovering that have a single name carved into them as if it was nature's design. 

Only if Mark could learn how to become the fountain of youth, so that braves and strongs from across mythologies unscripted would come and greet him. He's a nobody in this lifetime. Hopefully, in some other universe, he's whatever he secretly wants to be.

"I have a favour to ask of you." Jaemin sighs, a dark glint in his eyes, "I know this looks bad, as if I'm just here to ask for your help, but trust me, that's not the case. I don't have anyone else to turn to right now."

Mark nods, hesitant. His blood thrums and beats in his ears, too hot, too dirty; a few words and he's festering.

"There's someone I've been looking for. Some people have been giving me trouble lately, you know my line of work can become unpleasant. I'm not sure if this person is involved, but they have something that… may hold them in jeopardy. Either for protecting a criminal, for withholding evidence of this reaches court, or worse, in complicit.

"I'm looking for a guy in a neon orange hoodie, on the 4th of August, around midnight. Just near the 22/11. You know where it is. This person could be in trouble. I want you to try and find them for me before I come back. Can you do that?"

Mark stops breathing for a second, chest cavity constricted and ready to collapse inwards, ribs cracking and lungs shrivelling. A radiant smile. Doe-shaped eyes. Heavy breathing on a tongue that isn't his. He's frozen because he knows. He knows exactly who Jaemin is talking about and if he isn't careful enough, his face might give him away. 

He shuffles around, places his hands over his knees and lowers his head, trying to hide.

"I'll do my best. Thank you, for trusting me enough."

"Thank you, Mark. I know you have experience looking for people, and I don't want any word of this to leave the house. I've spoken to Taeil-hyung. He knows."

It's simpler words for if _you really need to talk about it, talk to Taeil because if you blabber outside, you might as well be the next person with a funeral arrangement._

There's only one thing Mark needs to do right now, and it's not trying to look through security cameras to see if Donghyuck's face is visible in any footage. It's to reach him, to grab Donghyuck with or without necessities, and isolate him before his body is found floating down the river.

  
  


今

  
  


It's the third time this week that Donghyuck gathers all of his belongings and dumps them into his suitcase. 

Stress packing? Panic packing? He doesn't know. But fuck the people who decided knowing every possible thing is the norm, he's not omniscient, he's a 26-year-old with measurable mood swings -- the size of each swing a rough range from the angles between a ballerina's legs to the pendulum of a clock that ticks endlessly, slowly, as if the end were nearing with every bated breath.

Three feet away, his laptop is open. On display is the blurry face of a pink-haired man. It took an hour of touching up to find some definition to his face, to console himself that he's not met this man since, has not been in the vicinity of a murderer even in Neo.

The effort gave him zero results however. Just two dots for eyes and a seeding doubt if the hair really is pink (he's checked it, he saturated and contrasted till his eyes hurt).

His phone is dying, his data is dying, fucking hell it's finally struck him that he's been a bumbling asshole to himself all this time for even considering that staying in Neo is safe. It's not. It doesn't sit well with his consciousness to have evidence and ignore it by putting on a Mark Lee-shaped blindfold. Fuck. He's going to miss Mark's smile, but he'll get over it in a few months. (It's not like Mark's the best kisser ever, but he had been sweet, so very sexy. Another regret on Donghyuck's ever-growing life regrets list.)

Donghyuck stops digging through the laundry for anything he can wear and runs over to close the picture on his laptop. 

He still needs to check flight information. If he remembers correctly… Jungwoo was supposed to get married. Which means there, in his mailbox, should be a mail sitting with a reschedulable e-ticket. The earliest flight is in the morni -- three hours from now. If he hurries, he might make it before boarding. And if not, then he can try for the afternoon one. He's safer at the airport than he is in Neo. 

Donghyuck shivers and uncaps his bottle to gulp a huge mouthful of water. He has nowhere to go. Back in Seoul, he's unsafe because he wasn't intelligent about handling the situation when he landed there a month ago. 

Where can he go? He doesn't have any other active visas, maybe Uganda, or Tanzania, but what explanation will he give when someone asks him why he's there? He doesn't even have the money to live a life of unemployment (fuck bad decisions, fuck horrible decisions, he should have just listened to his mother and invested in a new apartment instead of a car that's now too damaged to sell for even a tenth of what it cost him).

Maybe his earlier plan was alright. 

He should just sit on all of this, continue photographing for Mark, kiss him more, get near his dick and then leave the future for whenever it decides to slam him into a wall. 

There's tears welling up at the corners of Donghyuck's eyes -- stress, stress, stress -- and he wants to bash his head against the table but the prospect of having to pay damages to the hotel doesn't feel good enough to sacrifice his head for. 

He doesn't know what to do. His fingers cramp up and shake uncontrollably, his back hurts, ready to snap, and he can't stop moving his legs -- they're alive and they're too tense to settle down. He takes in a huge breath but it doesn't reach his lungs. It vanishes somewhere in between, the air diffusing past his thinning skin and away from the burning core of his body where everything is in flames.

He gulps, the sound echoing within the garbled space between his ears, and then there's nothing more. There's a stretch of black and artificial blue and red dots when -- 

His phone is ringing at the highest volume. It's vibrating so hard it threatens to fall off the desk. 

There's heavy knocking at his door.

*


	9. (八) When one thing ends, another begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not edited! please overlook any mistakes, I'll fix them later.
> 
> //
> 
> reminder:  
> 昔: past  
> 今: present  
> cw: hints of paranoia, an almost panic attack, slight mention of violence and injury

昔

  
  


There must be something special about the physiology of people who can hold onto secrets. They say if you keep a secret in your heart it will spill from your tongue, and if you keep something hidden in your brain it will bleed through your gaze. These people -- tight-lipped with words like icy sludge along grey roads -- must have other pockets built into their bodies that never decay.

Perhaps it has something to do with the depths of their stomachs -- the shallower the more they starve and regurgitate, the deeper the further their fear of failure spreads.

The moment Jungwoo walks away from him at Entebbe airport, Donghyuck has his walls up. 

The security check passes silently, the same till he gets into duty-free and even when he waits near the boarding gate with a half-finished cup of coffee in his hands. It's too silent. It unnerves him.

He shoots a few messages to his boss as soon as boarding is announced -- no matter where Donghyuck works, his safety needs to be taken care of. It's part of the contract and legally, he doesn't separate from the shaky foundations of his investigation agency for two more days. The perfect window of time, he thinks, to ask for an escort one last time.

Everything goes smoothly. Air hostesses in red caps and deep crimson lipstick greet him gently. He wonders how long they spend practising to smile that long without showing any discomfort. He finds his seat easily, stows away his hand luggage, and waits to be joined by whoever is supposed to sit next to him. Donghyuck sits with his eyes closed -- too used to waiting -- listening to the murmuring of passengers with frayed nerves and the babbling of a little child a few rows ahead of him.

Once everything settles in and he has downed two glasses of water after playing with his hot, lemon-scented towel for a good 10 minutes, no one shows up to sit next to him. 

It comforts him. Simultaneously, he starts chanting prayers he hasn't thought of in a decade.

*

There can't be many reasons to hire someone from another country altogether to click pictures for you. Donghyuck has gone over this, with his boss, with his colleagues and even his sister, but no answer appeals to him.

Whoever hired from their unknown, little agency -- tucked away between the murkiest offices in Seoul, impossible to come across at first sight -- was trying to cover up his identity. Donghyuck knows his client is from Neo City. Most of his floor knows too because the boss's secretary doesn't have a zipper on her mouth, and if he were to assume, most of Jeju knows because his sister loves talking about Donghyuck's adventures in the concrete maze. He doesn't know. 

If their identity was kept secret, then chances of them being a high-profile client are massive. Most people are unable to hide no matter how hard they try. (Was it Jungwoo? Why would he behave like that then? Is it him?)

The WCFN was no normal circle. It had its share of nature enthusiasts, and some of them managed to plant ideas of future campaigns into the heads of some investors they had managed to score meetings with so Donghyuck doesn't doubt them. But he does. He tries not to. It's not his job to unearth the secrets of the charity world, he lives paycheck to paycheck, his camera a steady weight in his presence. He doubts. He knows his line of reasoning is correct, that if he hands over the carefree pictures he had been asked to take, someone will fall into the clutches of a greater evil. 

Logically, he should have refused. His resignation notice has been processed, his apartment lease is nearly up, the auntie from the corner pharmacy has stopped showing up for work and Donghyuck doesn't like living alone anymore. Logically, though, he should have never left Jeju. 

If Donghyuck was asked to trace back everything to one point in time, he can do it with his eyes closed.

The day he decided he was too good a teenager to live the life of a silent islander was the day he chose doom. He sleeps without regret -- it isn't that deep -- but in moments of doubt, he wants to be 18 again, sitting on his childhood bed with the patchwork quilt his grandmother made him wrapped around his shoulders. 

What ifs. The bane of Donghyuck's existence. These days it's so easy to fall into them and the worlds that stem out of these bursts and take over his head. The tendrils of possibilities creep out of his heart and around the curve of his neck, ready to dig back in but this time with severe bloodshed. Donghyuck wants to cut off whatever circuitry has been laid inside his head. Life will become easier then.

*

After baggage collection and a final screening, Donghyuck sprints to the taxi stand.

Different professions lead to different occupational habits. Donghyuck has picked up alertness, and if not for that, he would have been dead long ago at the hands of some unfaithful man with a raging temper. People are waiting outside -- and of course, they would be, it's a freaking airport -- but there's a hungry look in the eyes of a group of men, they keep glancing at their phone screens and Donghyuck has never been more grateful for being pushed into the habit of wearing a face mask while travelling by his ex. At least she did one nice thing.

He could be reading too much into things. He's always been particularly talented at developing paranoia. However, prevention is better than cure. He believes in the curling ugliness of his guts.

He pushes through herds of exhausted travellers to search for the vehicle number he received a few minutes ago. Yellow car -- no, silver, no. He can hear footsteps behind him but he doesn't bother to turn around and check if it's the people he had been disturbed by or just regular people. He can't take risks. Not anymore. He resigned for fucks sake.

He spots the car -- sees the face of a junior -- and shuffles into the backseat with his suitcase. He pulls the door closed with a loud thud.

"Lee-ssi, is something the matter --"

"Drive. Fast. I think something is wrong and to some hotel. Don't take me home."

The junior doesn't question him and immediately takes to the road. It's probably his first time panic driving, but he'll get used to it soon enough, Donghyuck thinks. 

*

Everything is fine for 20 minutes or so. 

Then things happen so suddenly Donghyuck doesn't have the time to realise anything.

There's a car following them -- the silver one that he'd seen at the airport. It speeds up and Donghyuck urges to go faster. Within two unnecessary turns and a rather shaky drive through heavy traffic, it's confirmed that he's being followed. There are no guns, no honking and no sliding, nothing fancy because he's just the photographer. They're after his camera first _, then_ his life. 

It takes an hour of dizzying circling, wrong paths and frantic phone calls to lose their trail. 

"You shouldn't stay here long, Lee-ssi," the junior says -- forehead sweaty and brow furrowed -- as he slows down after breaking about thirty different traffic rules in a single afternoon, "is there any way for you to leave Seoul?"

  
  


今

  
  


Donghyuck takes in a breath till he feels his throat cooling with the air that passes through. His chest feels like it's being roped into the deathly grip of a corset but he holds on. He keeps breathing. Somewhere to his right, his phone stops vibrating and the incessant knocking at the door reduces to rhythmic thudding -- exactly three light knocks every minute. It's soothing in a way Donghyuck had never thought it could be, like the ticking of a metronome, providing consistency. He listens intently, then lowers his head at a muffled call of his name.

He shakes his head and rubs his arms. There's still phosphenes floating at the corners of his vision and he doesn't want to move from his spot on the floor in fear of getting dizzy. 

5 things to see, he recalls in a sudden moment of clarity and bites his cheek as he starts looking for things. A laptop on his desk, a closed window -- what else, what else, what else -- his running shoes lying against the foot of the bed. The overhead lights, dim enough to make his head hurt, and his suitcase, pulled open with clothes spilling over the edges.

4 things to touch. Donghyuck runs a finger over his wrist, desperately, to find his pulse. It's fast, which is a given because he's at the verge of a full-blown panic attack and he doesn't know if he's doing well enough to curb it. With the heavy beating of his heart, he struggles to move around but feels for his ribs and counts till he forgets the total number of pairs and can't keep up. He checks off two boxes in his head. Two more. His palms drag over the coarse material of his shirt and he thinks that should count. He nearly tips off balance but holds onto a table leg, the surface cold under his heated skin, and counts that as a touch too, no matter how accidental.

3 things to hear. His breathing -- loud, so loud -- fills his ears. The rhythmic door knocks (he should get up and open the door, he should). The low humming of the air conditioner. Three things.

He stands up, careful and with the support of the desk. It's fine, he can see. He's not shaking, he's not about to wobble to the floor in this room because he's not going to die as the victim of a locked room mystery. He gulps and walks over to the door. When he turns the lock, the knocking stops.

2 things to smell. Unfortunately, there's nothing within reach and the room smells exactly like it should which is a combination of hotel laundry and nothing. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn't. He sniffs the bend of his elbow, chasing his own scent. The oily tinge of his skin and almond from his moisturiser isn't easy to pick up, but it's not lost. 

However, as soon as he tugs the door open, a small wedge of space connecting him with something beyond his reach, he finds himself greeted by the musty smell of a rain-soaked hallway. In front of him, he sees a panicked face with wide eyes and gold-rimmed glasses. Mark Lee stands there with an arm raised, a debilitated aura and his lips pulled into a taut line. Donghyuck can't help it when he reaches out and pulls him in by the sleeves, locking the door behind him. Mark opens his mouth to speak but stops when he meets Donghyuck's eyes. 

Donghyuck wonders what he sees there, and if it troubles him -- if he sees the ingredients of a thunderous storm stockpiling or if he sees the leftovers of a boy hanging off the last of his hinges.

1 thing to taste. Taste. What the fuck is there to taste -- he looks over Mark's gaping mouth because he would love to plunge his tongue and feel the velvet of his lips but he doesn't have the guts to do it -- should he bite a pillow? But pillows don't taste like anything interesting (and he knows he's being picky and irritable but it's the last item on a checklist that is ingrained in his system and he has to find something to taste).

Donghyuck wraps his arms around Mark's outstretched ones and fits them into an awkward embrace. Nervous hands flit over the expanse of his back before settling near his waist.

"Donghyuck? Hyuck, did something happen, you --"

"Can I, I don't know --" he pauses, then drops his voice to a whisper,"-- bite you?" He finishes, throat tight. Half of him expects rejection and the other half seizes up with tension.

"What?" Mark's fingers dig into the hem of Donghyuck's sweatshirt. He is surprised, beyond belief, since no one expects to hear a question like that. He even looks intrigued. Donghyuck decides to push it as far as he can because even if Mark doesn't allow him to bite, he would've still felt the taste of momentary humiliation. That should be _taste_ enough.

"Can I bite you? Please, just a little," Donghyuck lowers his voice as he speaks.

"I- I don't understand why, but okay. Okay, you can." And Donghyuck's incisors find the supple flesh at the base of Mark's neck, then dig in gently. It's not a bite but a bubble and Mark squeaks as he tightens his hold onto Donghyuck.

Mark tastes a little wet, a little dusty, but he tastes like himself and the bitterness of his skin finally brings Donghyuck relief.

Finally, 1 thing to taste. And he'd tasted Mark Lee. Oh, fucking god

One thing and even _that_ he does wrong.

*

There are a hundred 'sorry's falling out of Donghyuck's mouth by the time he has gathered his bearings and whatever leftover brain cells he supposes he has. Mark pulls out a water bottle from the mini-fridge and makes him drink all of it before allowing Donghyuck to speak again. His throat hurts because of the temperature but he drinks without abandon. He is thirsty. He is still shaky and on the brink of collapse.

There is a tiny, bright red spot right at the base of Mark's neck, next to his jugular notch. Donghyuck feels his ears fall off post-combustion. He apologizes profusely.

"Fuck, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking --"

"Panic, or anxiety?" Mark asks in a soft, small voice because he probably knows what it feels like to be in Donghyuck's place. Donghyuck hopes that isn't the case.

"Could be either, they hit me the same way… thank you, for helping me calm down." He shrugs, dropping the empty bottle onto the floor. He leans back onto his palms and the comforter beneath him gives way, almost making him fall off the bed.

"What happened? If you're okay sharing," Mark asks, eyes warm and curious.

"Got overwhelmed. It wasn't a great evening, just one thing after another and I think… I think I'll have a proper attack soon, it's been building up for a while." 

Mark doesn't say anything, just kneels on the floor and runs a soothing hand over Donghyuck's left knee. He rubs around carefully, along the curves, and moves onto the calf as he slowly increases pressure. It's a soft gesture -- something that no one has done for Donghyuck before -- and Mark continues to draw circles deep into places that hurt with accumulated tension. Donghyuck tries holding back a choked moan but ends up sighing heavily. Belatedly, he wonders if Mark likes his legs massaged when he's vulnerable too. 

He looks so small from where Donghyuck is sitting on the edge of his bed, shoulders pulled close under a forest green hoodie, dark hair mussed up, just the tip of his nose and slivers of his cheekbones peeking through as he kneels on the cold ground.

Donghyuck leans forward and holds onto his arms, "Thank you, you don't have to," he says. It effectively stops Mark, and he sits back on his heels. When he looks up at Donghyuck, he looks weary -- but also gentle -- with prominent eye bags and a sleepy tilt to his lips. He curls his hands in his lap. That's when Donghyuck remembers that it's late -- nearly midnight -- and Mark shouldn't be here.

"Why are you here, Mark?" He asks. He is tired. He didn't end up in a mess of tears like a rolled over slug on the floor, but sometimes trying not to fall into despair takes all the energy one has. Donghyuck is drained.

He wants to fall into his cool sheets and wake up after eternity has passed. Or even longer.

"I came here to get you," Mark says, voice gaining back volume and colour. The panicked look that had deserted him once he'd been confronted with a shaky Donghyuck starts to surface again. His eyes grow wider than possible and he pushes against the bed, as if too nervous to stay on the ground.

"Get me?" Donghyuck echoes.

Mark swallows thickly, then stands up. 

"Yes. I promised Jungwoo to look after you, and if you fall in trouble…" _Jungwoo falls in trouble_ , Donghyuck _knows_ , he's been reminding himself of that ever since he first stepped onto the streets of Neo City, "and you need to be someplace safe right now."

"What do you mean safe? Isn't this hotel safe enough?" 

It probably isn't. It's small enough to pass as the overzealous investment of a businessman about to face bankruptcy. It's big enough to pass as the establishment of someone with a decent feeling of sufficiency rooted in their lives. It's definitely not safe though. Donghyuck wants to know why Mark thinks so too.

In a moment of confidence, he is certain that the flash of recognition on Mark's face has to do with his short-breathed company on the public bus all those nights ago, but how could he know? What the fuck does he even mean by safety, isn't he just here because he's a kind human and Jungwoo tattled on Donghyuck.

"That night when we first met," Mark hesitates, with his fingers struggling to stay still, "you were running away from something."

It's a fact. Donghyuck has long lost the strength to deny it. If Mark could figure that when he was tipsy, he knows Mark would catch onto the severity of his circumstances even faster when sober. Which he seemed to be doing right now. 

"I was. How does it matter right now? I'm going back home," he says, voice strained with the stress of a staved-off panic attack, "I was planning on rescheduling and going back to Seoul today," Donghyuck admits. 

His eyes fall onto the open cupboard, more than half empty, with all drawers pulled out. At the same time, his heart thunders against his chest.

He is confused. Nothing makes sense around him anymore. He wants to run away.

Everything seems to be the set-up of a low budget stage production. And even the story isn't great. Donghyuck does not dig this genre, he did not consent to become the protagonist of whatever mixed bag tragedy life is throwing in his face.

Donghyuck knows Mark as much as you can know a friend you met a few months ago. It's been a couple of weeks since they first met, but most of Donghyuck's waking hours are spent observing Mark's body lines through the lens of his camera. He can pick Mark out even in the dark, under barely lit ceilings with a hundred bodies swaying to hectic drum beats. At this moment, Mark looks like he's struggling to pick between the sides of Mark Lee life has sharpened -- to be the fearless musician or to be the sceptical boy hidden behind round glasses? Said glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose with pink and green reflections glaring at the younger.

Mark opens his mouth to speak and Donghyuck turns his head away, choosing to stare at the wallpaper instead. It doesn't shake Mark.

"You can't go back to Seoul. Not yet." He says. 

"Why not?"

"You know better than anyone else why."

The room is frigid. Donghyuck realises that the air conditioner has been running all along, at the lowest possible settings. He shivers and wraps his arms close to his torso. Mark stands unaffected, not just because he has been trembling ever since he started speaking, but because there's a resolve burning in his eyes. He's here for a reason. Donghyuck doesn't know if he likes the way it rattles in his core.

"There's something waiting for you in Seoul, isn't there?" Mark continues. He knows. He fucking knows and he still asks.

"There is. But anywhere is safer than Neo." Donghyuck says. 

"I believe you should come with me. It's your choice, Donghyuck. I'm going to wait here till you're ready, but trust me, when I say there's no place safer to hide than Neo, I mean it. Even if whoever you're running away from is in Neo."

"How do you know it's a person? What if it's not?"

Donghyuck heaves a sigh and sits up, looking at Mark. There's a firm set to his face -- determination perhaps, perhaps not -- but his eyes are unreadable. For a person as expressive as Mark, someone whose face works more than his vocal cords, the shutdown feels like he is pulling heavy curtains between them. Donghyuck feels something bitter pool on his tongue.

"Do you still have your hoodie? The neon orange one?"

Donghyuck nods.

"Nice. We need to get rid of it. I don't know how or why, but this person you're running from remembers your hoodie." Mark rattles off as if the last few minutes never happened.

"Wait, wait. I asked what makes you sure it's a person. Maybe I did something? What about that alternative?" He finds irritation building up the same way it did after that first night with Mark. After the night of the incident that unsettled Donghyuck.

"If you did, the most dangerous person in Neo wouldn't ask me to look for you, Lee Donghyuck."

  
  


昔

  
  


The streets bloom to life like a floral garden most days, with umbrellas of every possible colour bumping into each other, and it looks beautiful even from the sidelines as water rushes down to splash off the polymer and onto the asphalt. Footsteps form the networks of Neo. Each shoe-print in the mud leaves behind one part of a story of someone unfortunate enough to have found a livelihood here. 

Whether life in Neo is a blessing or misfortune, no one can tell unless they've reached the end of it. Who'd want to die just to judge if their place of birth was worth it? Not Jungwoo.

Kim Jungwoo teeters on the fine line between believing in luck and believing in the results of consistent effort. 

Today, as he sits with his back pressed against the worn cushions of an armchair at the Bookworm's Brewery with a cup of steaming masala tea in front of him, he believes in chances. Chances _and_ changes because they're not two sides of the same coin -- they are the damned coin.

It has been a year since the fire in Central Downtown, the incident that turned everyone's life upside down.

Before then, he would have spent this time with Mark -- with the best friend he seems to be losing with each day crossed off the calendar -- talking about Irene's latest court case or about Jisung and how well he's doing at school. They would have planned vacations to Canada or even to Egypt, knowing there's no way Mark would accompany him if it meant leaving his bedroom or classroom.

But not anymore. For the past year, Mark has been cut off from the rest of the world. Jungwoo often cries for him.

Bookworm's Brewery holds memories. Each wooden table, each display, every bookshelf in the back and the sheen of steam over coffee machines. Everything is a part of the childhood gifted to Jungwoo by virtue of his mother conceiving in Neo City.

She might have left him, and then his father might have had a string of lovers abandoned with torn hearts and rounded bellies, but Jungwoo knows his home lies here, in the curved perception of reality that creates the fabric of this city. He resents it. He loves it. Jungwoo owes the comfort of fat stacks of money to his genetics and a lawsuit, but he owes the comfort of his soul to the Neo City high school dorms where he lives today, years after it has stopped serving as a dormitory -- now that it's walls form the sturdy foundations of belonging.

But there's nothing such as luck to tether him to grand illusions of life beyond the shadows of what he grows to become.

If he had been lucky in the slightest, he would have never come to Neo. He would have had a father that cared to learn his name and a mother who would have coddled him in her own arms instead of allowing one of his many possible step-mothers to ensure he lives to see his 10th birthday. He wouldn't have had to run away from the claws of suffocation under the guise of human welfare. All his years of hopping from place to place just to feel the satisfaction of having a home in Neo could have been years steeped in the essence of undeniable belonging.

Jungwoo also wouldn't be sitting in front of his boyfriend of four years with tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. A single breath holds the strength to shatter him into a million pieces.

Wong Yukhei blinks once, "I mean what I said. Let's break up."

"I asked for a reason, where is my reason?" Jungwoo asks. 

"Don't take this the wrong way --"

"There is no right way to take this." Jungwoo tries so hard to keep his voice level but he knows he's failing. Four years. Four. Crumbling in front of him.

"I'm part of the inquisition team. I'm an investigator, and you work with Na --" Yukhei pauses, then leans closer to the table before whispering, "-- Na Jaemin."

"His brother set up the inquisition team," Jungwoo counters.

"That doesn't clear his name."

Jungwoo takes a quick look around the café, ensuring nobody is close enough to overhear. 

"He's dead, Yukhei. He is dead. Has been for almost a year. He died in the fire last year, it is public knowledge for a reason, you can't go around claiming he is alive."

"Yeah, in the eyes of the public only. Everyone actually knows he's still around, Woo, who are you fooling?" Yukhei tries to hold onto Jungwoo's hand but the latter pulls away.

"What do you want then? You're going to throw away all of this, everything we've been through together, for what? Because I knew Jaemin? We grew up together, there's no way I _wouldn't_ know him."

"Woo, this isn't about your childhood friend. This is about a jaded criminal. Do you or do you not work with him?"

Jungwoo opens his mouth but the shrill whistle of a kettle cuts him off. In his peripheral vision, a cup shatters and chairs scrape across the floor loudly. A chair falls. There's coffee all over the floor, black flowing speedily with the overhead lights reflected on the surface. Jungwoo swallows, tight. 

"Maybe if you were my boyfriend, I would have told you." And I have, I have told you before, Jungwoo thinks. 

Yukhei sighs heavily and pushes his hair back with a hand, his other tapping uncoordinatedly onto the tabletop. He looks up at the ceiling, refusing to answer. If this were any other day, Jungwoo wouldn't have made petulant statements, but it isn't and Yukhei has no valid explanation for the sudden break-up.

One evening Jungwoo is grinding in his lap, all red-faced with moans being pushed out of his throat mercilessly, and the next afternoon he's sitting here. Anger and frustration coalesce into a strong emotion at the base of his skull. It hurts, but he also wants to make something hurt -- preferably Yukhei's heart -- and the feeling spread throughout his body like jolts of low voltage.

Yukhei clears his throat and pulls him out of his thoughts.

"Listen, I know you're going through something -- something that you think I don't deserve to know by the way. You don't think I've noticed what a mess this is causing? What is happening to you… I can't just sit here and say nothing."

"So you decided that breaking up will solve all these problems. Very smart of you. Is this why they employed you?" Jungwoo seethes.

"Stop this. Don't do this again," Yukhei sighs and rubs a hand over his face. The tip of his nose turns red with how harshly he pinches it once. "Have you or have you not been using me as an information channel? Save your breath -- I know you have. There's no use denying it, you're not as slick as you thought. If I didn't love you --"

"Then what? You would arrest me?"

"Don't," Yukhei warns, eyes as cold as the glass separating them from the hustle of Neo. "You're not just working with Jaemin," he says and for a second, just for a split-second, Jungwoo notices him break into the softer man he fell in love with all those years ago, "Mark is also a close friend of yours."

Jungwoo gasps, "He's your friend too."

He can't believe Yukhei would stoop this low, to bring up Mark now of all times. Jungwoo's best-fucking-friend, the only person he's ever known.

"I don't think so, not anymore, at least he won't be, not after today. He will never forgive me for hurting you." The admission settles part of Jungwoo's anger. So Yukhei knows it's painful, but it doesn't stop him from saying shit anyway, "He has a previous criminal record."

"For something that wasn't his fault." Jungwoo curls his hands into fists, knuckles white.

"Jungwoo," Yukhei closes his eyes, and the usage of his name -- Jungwoo, not Woo, or sweetheart, or cutie, or anything, just Jungwoo -- sounds like an overly loud alarm on the morning of a day meant to grieve, "do you seriously believe all that shit Irene made up for him? Bless her soul, but she loved him fiercely, it wasn't difficult to bend the facts in his favour. He didn't even reach trial. Don't you think it can happen again? And Irene isn't here to save his skin anymore."

He doesn't stop there. Jungwoo can't breathe. How long has Yukhei been struggling to keep these thoughts inside him?

"I think… I think it's time you recognise the privilege you guys carry with your names. All of you from that house. You're not normal, not socially, not emotionally. How long will you keep taking advantage of my feelings for you? I'm a normal man. I don't know how many times I will be forced to look the other way just to survive in my field. It's not easy."

A beat passes.

"And being me is easy," Jungwoo says, egging him on.

"That's not what I mean --"

"That is what I heard." A white lie.

He can't refute the truth. But it doesn't change the fact that he has nothing else to keep Yukhei with him. Not his face, or his money, or sex, nothing will keep Yukhei close if Yukhei dares to point out everything Jungwoo has been sweeping under the rug. The courageous don't belong with measly cowards.

Yukhei pays the bill and leaves when Jungwoo refuses to speak further. It's the least he can do for a newborn ego.

  
  


昔

  
  


"Jungwoo, Jungwoo, Jungwoo --" Mark's voice breaks and it's not because of bad reception -- even if the phone call comes from a public phone booth number -- he is crying and it's bad.

"Hey, hey, Mark, are you okay, where are you?" 

There's no response, just static and a choked sob, then the rustle of fabric.

"Where are you, Mark? I'll come to get you." It's late and Jungwoo suddenly regrets not having a clock in his room. He doesn't have it in him to pull his phone away to check the time in case Mark says something. Beyond the window, it starts drizzling.

"N-Near the venue," he murmurs and Jungwoo asks him to repeat clearly as he pulls on a jacket and searches for his car keys.

"The dinner venue. I'm near the dinner venue, I told you about it yesterday -- that one, Jungwoo, I --" he pauses, and everything falls silent. 

Mark has never done this before. He's the kind of person to do everything within his rationale first; asking for help kills him. And Mark never calls. He texts and he sends memes but he never calls unless it's absolutely necessary. This isn't his phone either. A thousand horrible scenarios cross Jungwoo's mind and he bites his lower lip. What the hell, what the hell, what the hell -- 

"I think I almost… He's still breathing. There's some bruising and bleeding but he's still breathing, I don't know how long that will last though, Jungwoo can you call an ambulance for me? Please. My phone died, can you please."

"I'll come get you --"

"No, don't. I'll come home later, I promise I will, just don't let him die. Not yet."

The line cuts off. Jungwoo is already descending the last flight of stairs when it dawns upon him. He stumbles and falls onto a sofa in a boneless heap. Not again. Fuck no, not this soon. Jungwoo curls in on himself, inconspicuous in the dark and throws his head back. From here, through the wooden railings on the higher floors, he sees Mark's bedroom door. Then he looks further upstairs in the other direction, and the door isn't visible, but it's where Na Jaemin lives.

It's been a year since his break-up with Yukhei, but the man's words still haunt him some nights. 

Tonight, however, they ring true.

_Don't you think it can happen again? And Irene isn't here to save his skin anymore._

Mark Lee is a calm person who just happens to have an instinct for violence. He is an adult with a good life who is responsible for a college freshman as his only guardian. At worst, Jisung can get by on his own. (Which is impossible, because Irene -- what a clever woman -- bound everything to Mark till Jisung turns 20. Perhaps she was a bit of a fool to expect Mark would stop landing himself in trouble once she died.)

Jungwoo has no space to comment. He's a branch of the tree that grows from the sapling of contradictions planted at the core of Neo.

An honest city that survives at the cost of morality. 

Jungwoo heaves a sigh and heads back upstairs, crossing his floor and heading to the third.

*

Jaemin isn't home. But it takes one call to reach him. Besides, he owes Jungwoo a recent favour.

Jungwoo doesn't call for the ambulance. He dials the public booth number again, and when Mark answers -- tired and frustrated -- Jungwoo tells him to do exactly what Jaemin had instructed a few minutes ago. He assures Mark that everything is fine.

"It's been handled. Don't worry about it. Go build an alibi."

  
  


今

  
  


Donghyuck vaguely recalls standing under golden streetlights. As Mark drives him through the city -- packed with cars and people of all dispositions even past midnight -- he only spots orange lights. He wonders if he is finally going crazy. He should call his mother one last time before he forgets what it's like to be Lee Donghyuck.

Unfortunately, he can't even do that. His phone sits in a pocket of his suitcase, dismantled with both his SIM cards in Mark's sweatpants -- funny how his phone number managed to touch Mark's pants before he could -- and even though Donghyuck's mother's landline number is printed on his frontal cortex in bold red letters, he doesn't have the energy to hold a conversation without giving away that he has been keeping something from her the past few days.

A mother's intuition is fearsome. She will know right away that he's distressed, and it will be of no use. He will remain worried here and she will get worried there. 

Mark glances at him every few minutes and Donghyuck places a sweaty palm on Mark's thigh to placate him. 

He is fine. Or, he will be. 

The ride is silent in stark contrast with the world outside. Red, green, and even the occasional blue, shine on the rearview mirror. 

As per typical Neo City fashion, the skies flash white and thunder booms across, piercing through their skin. Mark keeps driving with both hands drumming a silent beat on the steering wheel. Donghyuck figures he has nothing to do right now but to drown in the thoughts that he's been piling at the back of his mind for days. Everything comes chugging like a train too late to reach its station. He is the only passenger to board. The train is packed.

Mark veers off the main road and heads towards an isolated, grassy field beneath a low flyover. It's not an area meant to be accessed by cars.

"You stay here," Mark says as he unbuckles the seatbelt and reaches behind his neck to catch hold of the hood. Donghyuck tugs at the fabric and straightens it before helping Mark pull it over his head. "I'll be back in a second."

Mark picks up the white shoe-bag that holds Donghyuck's neon orange hoodie and leaves the car.

Donghyuck follows him through the watery windshield -- a figure of deep green wading through tall grass and towards stacks of what he thinks are tin barrels. There's no way Donghyuck could have guessed such corners exist in Neo. They have to. It's a city with a dirty underbelly, like any other major city in the world, but the idea of finding such abandoned stitches never struck him. 

When Mark comes back -- damp, with glasses so blurry his eyes have disappeared -- he Huff's, tossing the now empty shoe-bag towards the backseat. 

"Nobody comes here. They won't find your hoodie here. No matter what happens, Hyuck, you never owned that hoodie. You've never worn it, and you've never crossed paths with anything suspicious here. All you know are me and Jungwoo. Is that okay?"

"Why are you doing this? For me?" Donghyuck asks. 

A part of him -- the selfish one -- wants to hear it's because Mark values him. Even in a situation as ambiguous as this, he wants conclusive words to tie up the many threads Mark has been handing him over the mostly silent days they have spent together. A look here. A look there. The touch of heated lips and saliva that tastes sweet. What kind of sick human must he be to look for gratification here? Donghyuck grimaces. 

"A little for you, a little for Jungwoo, but mostly for myself. That's the only answer I can give." 

Honest to a fault, this fool, Donghyuck thinks and finds himself rooted to earth once again.

"Where are you taking me?"

"My home." The engine starts and they're headed towards the highway. "Sometimes, the best place to hide from danger is right under its nose."

*


	10. (九) from one home to another

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little later than promised because I fell sick in between. Can you tell I struggled through the middle? I had to salvage a lot of text (about 700 words) from other wips and abandoned fics to make up parts of this. Big sigh. Have fun. 
> 
> Once again, I don't condone anything happening in this fic, and I don't intend to romanticise it. 
> 
> Also, happy Yuta day!
> 
> cw // there's a dead body but there's not much description, a graveyard (again, described loosely), mentions of throwing up, one paragraph on sexual harassment and implied attempted assault (so that you can avoid it, it's written where Mark is entering the shower), slight mentions of violence, mentions of sex and sex work.

昔

  
  


Mark Lee is 22 years old, in his last year of music school -- armed with a violin in his arms and the tag of a specialist on his student ID -- sitting in his sister-in-law's makeshift study after class, reading an abridged version of one of Shakespeare's plays and he feels at peace. The constant scratching of pencil accompanied by the gentle patter of rain sway his thoughts far away from the passage he's reading. 

Irene sits hunched over the dinner table, taking notes from a bundle of files she had brought in from her office earlier that evening.

A few minutes pass as Mark closes his eyes and simply listens.

"Will you have dinner with us tonight?" She asks, putting aside the file and taking off her glasses. It's a little past seven in the evening. Jisung is still out there somewhere with a tennis racket and some friends. Mark hopes he'll come back soon so that he can coddle him, which was the reason why he came over in the first place. 

"If it's not troubling, I'd love to." He says, curling further into the comfort of the couch.

"You can just say 'yeah', Mark," Irene chuckles back, shaking her head slightly. 

"Yeah." He says with a smile tugging at his lips.

"I was thinking of doing something different. I haven't had proper Korean food in a while, should I make something simple but Korean? Just for taste… " She says, and as it often does, her voice lowers to a murmur then trails off as she probably tries recalling what ingredients she has at the moment.

Whatever she cooks, Jisung -- and Mark by extension -- will always compliment her. She works hard. Perhaps harder than any other adult Mark has ever seen, be it at college or anywhere else.

Which recently widowed would be willing to take in their much younger brother-in-law and make sure they get an atmosphere comfortable enough to live in, all the while taking care of a newborn by themselves? She is a strong lady. And her strength goes beyond the iron facade she puts up in court. Her heart is a muscle unlike any other, it beats for Mark and for Jisung, and it continues to beat despite being riddled with injuries inflicted continuously over time. She doesn't just survive, she thrives.

For a second, he just looks, he continues looking, and as the clock hands tick past, he wonders if this is a glimpse of the future his brother saw when he asked Irene to marry him -- young, reckless and passionate.

Mark respects her more than he respects anyone else in the world. If she weren't as she is -- with a bit of a cold exterior, with strong opinions and an uncompromising self-image -- Mark would have grown up in the streets. He wouldn't even know he has a name or a home.

Irene wears her glasses again. The light reflects off in pinks and greens. She sits in her own living room -- a place she has built by herself, a warm, cosy environment to come back to, four walls she has paid for by breaking her back under the pressures of a corrupt legal system -- she runs herself as threadbare as Jisung's first favourite plush toy. She keeps that little rabbit in a glass cabinet on display, and Jisung sneers with pink cheeks but he's only 13. Maybe when he leaves this bubble of this odd two-and-a-half person family, he will remember it fondly.

On better days, Mark feels light-hearted. He stops by the candy shop next to his university and picks out what he knows Jisung and Irene like before dropping by. 

He feels touched by the feeling of spring. Happy. Joyful. Colours, colours, colours everywhere and oh god, he feels as light as a feather because he doesn't know what it's like to have parents and his brother has passed away but he does know what having a family feels like and it's more than enough to glue the pieces of his paper heart together.

On other days, he feels like an intruder.

He loves Irene, he truly does. She has raised him in the truest sense of the word. He will never know how to show his gratitude. 

But on these days he can't be placated. He wants to be a brother but Jisung doesn't treat him as one -- the boy simply doesn't allow it. He can't be a father because he's too young and it would mean he's trying to level with Irene who is more than a decade older than him. They're not the same. They can't be. 

Glimpses of photographs run through his mind -- the gleeful face of his brother, little baby Jisung, a plump and rosy Irene. 

Photographs he isn't a part of.

On the worst sort of days, Mark wishes he weren't around just so that Irene could have had it easier. He also knows that if he says it, Irene will hand his ass to him. She sees him as her son -- and who wouldn't -- and she would die before she lets any harm come either of her children's way. 

Jisung might agree that Mark has definitely been something of a human-shaped stone on his otherwise glorious path to freedom. He's 13, Mark reminds himself. Mark was terrible at 13.

He sighs, a slight burn taking over the centre of his chest.

Mark Lee is just 22 years old. Mark Lee has spent the greater part of his life learning the ins and outs of Neo City. He knows the shortest routes to take within the curved alleys of Downtown, and he knows the busiest places to avoid when going up North for business on a Wednesday afternoon.

Neo City is home. 

And in the same breath, it isn't. 

His heart settles at the sight of his bedroom door but his thoughts race whenever he imagines a life somewhere else.

He doesn't remember any other place, just glimpses of rooms too wooden to belong in a place as humid as this. He wonders if, in some other universe, he lives in a place where the skies don't shower on civilization for unknown reasons -- to clean the blood that people spill on land, or perhaps to make it more breathable. Mark will never know. Nature doesn't answer him when he asks questions like this.

Would it be the same in a high rise apartment hidden in New York? What about Tokyo, could he live in a noiseless suburb there for the rest of his life? He thinks of Seoul, of the place his father was supposedly born and brought up in, but how would Seoul welcome him with open arms when he has never seen it as someplace to stay indefinitely. And these are some of the places he has visited. He has seen these landscapes through the thick windows of hired cars before. No place has ever held the charm of becoming his home.

Mark doesn't believe that just people or just brick structures with nothing at their core can be home. Sure, the people you live with and love are important, but he doesn't want to nest in the chests of people who are homeless themselves.

"Irene," Mark starts -- tongue numb but fluttery -- and waits for her to look his way before he continues. She hums, and he tears his gaze away to drill the ink on the pages of his book. "If you could live anywhere else, where would you go?" 

She hums again, contemplating. She twirls a long strand of black hair over her shoulder as she bites the inside of her cheek.

"Daegu? I would go back to Daegu. It's where I was born."

"Do you have any family left there?"

"No. All of them came to Neo and it's rightful that I die in Neo too. Get buried with them." 

"I see."

"Mark?" She asks, in a gentle voice. She knows Mark is trying not to look at her because she always just does. He knows if he looks now, he will see a gentle expression on her face.

"Yes?"

"Thank you for always being there for me and Jisung," she whispers. Mark wonders if there's any chance of being reborn in a universe where Irene would have everything lovely and pretty in the world. He wants to be born to her. 

"Thank you too, for being there for me," Mark says in response. He shifts, then folds his legs under him on the sofa and places his novel facedown. He wasn't reading anyway.

"If anything ever happens to me, I know you will be there for Jisung. But I also want you to promise me you'll be good to yourself."

"Where's that coming from?"

"Just promise me? You will be good. You have a good heart. Use it well."

"I promise I'll be good." Mark blinks. He feels his eyes moisten. He feels like morphing into a huge drop of water and seeping through the floor.

It's reassuring to know that Irene trusts him. But it's also frightening to think that someday he will have to live alone. He's not alone per se. He has all the people that live in the dorms. ( _But for how long?_ His treacherous brain asks, how long are they going to keep playing house in a world that has chosen to displace them from where each of them belongs? Isn't that companionship just vivid imagination?)

"Thank you, and to answer your question, nothing in particular. But you never know. With my profession, if I ever cross the wrong person, I could be gone within minutes."

She smiles, genuine and full of mirth and Mark wonders for a second if Irene ever thought of dying and following her husband into the afterlife. Perhaps the afterlife exists -- Mark likes to imagine sometimes that it does and he'll get to meet the people he couldn't before -- but if it doesn't, and if Irene thinks it doesn't, would she still be willing to follow him to his grave?

Mark is old enough to have entertained various ideas about his family, and this isn't the first time he has thought of this, however, it _is_ the first time the thought hits hard because Irene has never mentioned dying before. It's unconventional for someone like her to… die, just like that. It's impossible.

Like a young child, Mark has simply grown to ignore the fact that Irene is mortal.

"I think," She pushes back her chair. The discussion is over. Mark has missed an opportunity to ask her what makes her what she is. "I'll make egg drop soup later. We don't have any kimchi, so we'll just have to make do with that."

  
  


今

  
  


To avoid thinking about the grave predicament Donghyuck might find himself in, he thinks of nonsensical scenarios.

Donghyuck has often thought about life underground. He'd become a smiling waiter at a classified VIP-only bar who strips and swirls around poles with all his skin on display to pleasure their regular customers every weekend for a meagre amount of money. He doesn't know if these places carry out forced prostitution or if it's willing sex work. 

He shivers. He has exhibitionist tendencies but if he ends up doing that for a living, he would prefer to have a choice in how to monetize his sex life. 

He's nearly been there before -- a short camboy gig with the man he hung around -- but he finds there's no satisfaction if he's being paid to be lewd. If he's indulging them, he wants people to be watching him without being forced to pay, and he would like to choose who watches him. 

The idea of Mark not being comfortable with sex with him has left Donghyuck's mood dampened, but it can't be helped. It's not a problem that he doesn't get wet for someone he doesn't know well enough. Good for him rather. 

Mark doesn't get to choose his sexuality the same way Donghyuck doesn't get to choose what's happening with him right now.

As Mark silently drives him past the huge iron gates of what seems like a posh housing complex, Donghyuck registers that he is floating within the illusion of choice. From the moment Donghyuck decided to click a picture that cursed night, this is where he had been doomed to end up. He folds one arm over his stomach and lets the other rest high on Mark's thigh where he's been clutching onto the cloth for a while. It's dark beyond the gates. The car headlights light up a red brick road, and Donghyuck can see some shrubbery along the sides.

"There are lamps along the road, but we turn them off this late at night due to safety concerns," Mark says as if he managed to read Donghyuck's mind. What if Mark is a psychic? Does he know everything? Or does he only read minds at inconvenient times like these?

They stop at a distance from a block-like building with dusty brown walls and a black door with a few steps leading up to it. Donghyuck looks around and finds a few other cars parked alongside. There's no porch or grand entranceways and the front yard is just grass and a cobbled path. 

When Mark parks the car, he turns to Donghyuck and holds his hand. He squeezes gently.

"Alright, just follow me, we're taking the door through the kitchen." Donghyuck opens his mouth to interrupt but Mark doesn't let him, "I know you have questions, and I have so many questions too, really. But there's no way to get answers when you're this… worn. I promise we'll discuss this at length in the morning. You just have to promise me that unless we do, you won't let anyone else see you."

"Can I trust you?" Donghyuck asks instead. It leaves Mark blinking for a second, and then he nods. 

Donghyuck's cheeks prickle with shame. Mark has brought him here, helped him become untraceable, even got rid of his hoodie, but the biggest unknown factor in this equation is Mark himself. Who is to say that Donghyuck won't be beheaded once he crosses the threshold of this building?

"Are you sure I'll be safe here?" Donghyuck whispers. It's just him, Mark and the moonlight.

The truth is that he has no idea what is happening. You could spin him like a bottle and following the law of inertia, he would never stop spinning because there's no friction where he stands -- there is no surface he has footing on. He's suspended in a void of gravity that threatens to fray his nerves from a high-speed shock.

"I told you, it's your choice whether to trust me or not. But it's partly my responsibility to keep you safe, and I'm doing just that."

When they exit the car and walk to the back door -- carefully because the path is a little uneven -- Mark leads Donghyuck with intertwined fingers and a thumb caressing the back of his hand. Before Mark scans his fingerprint on the biometric lock, Donghyuck feels raindrops fall on his head.

*

Donghyuck bumps into a long table twice, once against the door jamb and nearly knocks off a flower vase by the staircase before Mark dives to save it. 

Fortunately, they just have to climb a single flight of stairs -- and he maps the distance with a hand tracing along the walls -- till they make it into the corridor. Mark tugs him forward, and this is a weird kind of house. Donghyuck has seen these in movies and TV shows before but never in real life, with a central living room and all the subsequent floors nothing more than strips of passageway with wooden railings on the sides -- held up with concrete pillars no less. Too grand to be a normal house. In the dark, Donghyuck barely makes out the floorplan, but there only seem to be bedrooms on the higher floors. 

Mark's bedroom door is located at the end. Donghyuck is not surprised to see that the corridor doesn't extend along the front wall of the building.

"Donghyuck," Mark whispers as keys jingle, "in here." 

The door closes behind them softly. Mark switches on a single light.

"Do you want to eat something?"

"I had dinner earlier," Donghyuck replies, and ah. Fuck. He'd forgotten all about it. Mayor Jeong. He files it away for the discussion they're going to have in the morning.

"Okay then. I'll bring up some water bottles. That's my closet -- y'know what, the bathroom's right there, and by the time you're done, I'll pull out something for you to change into. I will bring up your suitcase when it's light outside."

Donghyuck agrees. A warm shower sounds nice and Mark scurries away, face pinched and hair tousled as if he'd just braved a storm. Perhaps he had.

The room smells like… a weird mixture of scents. It's soothing, not too strong, but it doesn't immediately register as pleasant. If he sniffs hard, he can smell something that faintly reminds him of a clear stream running along with dry land. That's the best he can do at figuring out what Mark's room smells like. (There is also the lingering hint of sweet fabric softener, light yet heady, just like Mark.)

Mark's violin case is placed behind the door along with a bigger case of a similar shape. He must play another instrument then, maybe a cello or a viola? Donghyuck can't tell by looking at it.

There is a huge monitor on his desk, a little angled to make space for papers and neverending containers of pens. Mark seems to like stationery given the massive amount of colour pencils are bundled in a jute hanging pocket hooked up right next to his desk. Donghyuck leans closer and spots a CPU under the desk. Very normal.

"Ha…" Donghyuck plops onto the edge of Mark's bed. Fluffy. He turns over and rubs his face against the soft comforter. 

Normal. He desperately needs normal. 

There is no universal definition of what normal is. For some, it's routine living starting a cup of white latte in the morning, going to an office and ending with working the cogs of a faithful alarm clock. For another, it's waking up in a stranger's bed, spending the evening in a record store and then picking up ladies at the bar later. 

For Donghyuck. What's normal for Donghyuck? Knowing what's happening? To be honest, he didn't have a fucking clue of what was going to happen when he first shifted to Seoul. Back then it was exciting. Young blood, too much energy, too little fear. He's getting old now, people try to bully him off of Twitter because he's 26 and he likes reading twilight fanfiction every once in a while, and there's no regularity in his life which should be extremely concerning. Except it isn't. 

Normal might just comprise having a bed, money for food and his favourite Spotify playlist downloaded.

He rolls around again before sitting up and pushing off the bed. 

His brain is buzzing with unanswered questions. There's too much going on and at the same time, it feels like nothing has changed. He can pretend he's not in some sort of mortal peril when he's standing in his crush's bedroom -- oh my fucking god he's in Mark Lee's room he is going to combust.

 _You are in danger idiot, remember, remember._ Slapping his cheeks gently and shaking his head, Donghyuck tries to bring back some common sense. However, just for tonight, it will benefit him to set aside the fears wriggling in his chest like uncontrolled hypertension.

He looks around to distract himself.

Donghyuck has a feeling that with some rearrangement, this room would become a lot more spacious than it already is -- if Mark clears up all the clutter along the edges that is. It's not overly furnished, just filled with the essentials and a massive book rack that has various… textbooks? Those look like textbooks. There's nothing out of the ordinary. At the same time, there's too much of everything. What strikes Donghyuck immediately as odd is the lack of windows in the room.

He opens the door to what he assumes is the bathroom but lands in a small corridor, about three metres long. There is a little alcove in front of him -- empty -- and two sliding doors on either side. 

The first one he checks opens into a little bathroom, white-tiled and smelling like chlorine.

The other door, he learns, leads to a small balcony.

Warm earthly air fills his lungs as soon as he slides open the door. There is nothing but a vast stretch of the night sky in front of his eyes and he swallows another mouthful of humid air as he steps out. 

The railing is cold to touch and a heavy water droplet falls onto the back of his hand from the eaves. There is another balcony right above this, which is why he doesn't get drenched. 

Although there isn't much to see other than grass and water droplets -- speeding along like noise in an old art film -- he can still listen. Donghyuck closes his eyes and stands motionless, fingers barely holding onto the chilled, metal railing in front of him. 

It's an endless patter of rain.

It's Neo.

*

"Did you get the --" Mark gestures turning knobs with his hands, "-- temperature settings all right?"

"Yeah, thanks." Donghyuck pats his hair as dry as he can. Mark offers him a blow-dryer, but he refuses. "It's late, it'll wake up the others, won't it?" And that's assuming there _are_ any others. There must be.

"Don't worry about it. Jungwoo -- he's my neighbour -- is at his fiancé's."

"Dick appointment?" Donghyuck asks with a chuckle.

"Dick appointment," Mark confirms.

He looks so kind like this. Warm in a lavender sweatshirt -- and they're matching, with Donghyuck in the same clothes but blue -- that it's easy to forget there are hidden sides to him.

Suddenly, Mark is simply a struggling musician who teaches high school students for a living. There's nothing shady about him, there's nothing Donghyuck doesn't know because everything that needs to be known is here, shimmering on the surface.

Donghyuck lets the thin towel hang on his head and cups Mark's cheeks. His eyes widen, so round, and his glasses tilt under the light pressure from Donghyuck's fingertips.

To trust or not to trust. To give or to take. To play or be played. 

Or to be everything at once and nothing in the next breath.

Somewhere in his chest, a sooty blemish is rubbed off only to be painted black all over again. Now, he seems to finally understand what Mark Lee is made of.

Lee Donghyuck may be a vibrating bundle of anxiety stretched thin and woven into whatever physical form he has, but he's also aware of where to stop.

Under the stream of hot water, he managed to clear up a few things for himself. And he knows what he _wants_ to know. Why is he being searched for? Is it really because he clicked a picture at night? Who is looking for him? Why does Mark know that person? Is it related to the people that chased him in Seoul? Is Jungwoo really the client from Neo? Why does everyone seem to know each other, and is Neo City a web, and if it is, who is the spider that has captured him? Will Donghyuck be eaten?

A gentle hand lowers and stops where Mark's neck meets his jaw and angles his face closer. Donghyuck wants to kiss him. There is no reason more than that he wants to seek physical comfort. He wants to drop a simple chaste peck and pull away but he doesn't know where the boundaries lie, not right now when whatever glimpses of Mark he had managed to piece together in the past weeks have been undone at the snap of some fingers (or were they glimpses fed to him? Fed to him, he concludes). So he takes the next best thing and hovers close to the apple of Mark's cheek. Mark's eyes close and there is no resistance, only a soft smile. 

This is it. Donghyuck presses a sweet kiss there, rounded lips to warm skin, and stays in place for a few seconds. Mark doesn't open his eyes even as Donghyuck pulls away. (In the future, Donghyuck will look back at this moment with mixed feelings, but for now, he revels in the gift that this tiring day has brought him. He should have just gone for it.)

He is certain that he is drifting now. In a place beyond limbo, but between life and whatever lies beyond the darkness of dreams and shattered hearts.

"Thank you. I don't know why, but I'll trust you. Don't break me, okay?"

"I know I won't."

  
  


今

  
  


Na Jaemin has seen plenty during his time on earth. He takes off his gloves, inside-out, and cuts them into half before throwing them in the bin.

The laboratory is silent. It smells of decomposition and trying to cover the stench are strong, alcoholic cleaners. The bright lighting hurts his eyes but it's as necessary as it is stupid. This whole thing is a very foolish get up and Jaemin seriously considers walking out of here, but the cursed CCTV cameras won't let him. He swears under his breath.

Life has played a constant game of mouse with him. 

He has gained, then he has lost, and lost, lost and lost till he found ways to gain once more. Despite the sort of wreck of a life he has led, there are things he doesn't understand even today. 

He doesn't understand why one death is scandalous if it means it'll keep a hundred others alive. He doesn't understand why a little bit of misery can't be the foundation on which smiles are layered one after another, like thin sheets of pasta stretched and stacked, ready to be cut and dried to be delivered someplace where it's required. 

What he does understand is that emotions are complex. He would die of grief if something were to happen to anybody he holds close to his heart. Truly. He does become sentimental sometimes. He hates it when Jaehyun -- his poor brother, so much potential crushed under their mother's foot -- doesn't get whatever skewed form of entertainment he looks for, he hates it when Mark gets rejected from another job interview because of his blotchy résumé, he hates it when Chenle sits brooding in a corner after being unable to write after a hard day at university.

But for the things he hates, who can he hold accountable but himself?

"Fuck everything," he whispers, leaning against a marble counter away from the examination table in the middle of the laboratory.

He doesn't pull off his face mask yet. The body lying a few feet from him stinks of the horribly kept graveyard it was recovered from. What irony, Jaemin thinks, that the body he was specially asked to examine is the same he had his men dig out just weeks ago as bait. Unfortunate. Back then, the corpse had been fresh. Cleaning him and hammering him back into shape wasn't a big problem.

Now, though, he laughs to himself.

There aren't many who practice the same profession as him in Neo. He knows two others that deal with the outskirts, always busy those bastards -- rolling in freshly laundered money. Jaemin should start charging for these… consultations.

He has no idea why the captain of an investigation team would seek out an underground dealer like him. He dropped out of the university for a reason -- which might have to do with why he was getting a degree but it doesn't matter anymore -- and he isn't qualified to have statements go on record. He does specialise with anything dead, be it plant or human, but this is just weird.

For all he knows, soon there will be bulky men breaking down this door and cuffing him up. He's very much illegal, _thank you, I know,_ he would say if told as much.

It's fucking frustrating that he doesn't have anyone he can talk to. 

He knows -- his gut tells him everything -- that the cause of his current predicament is Jaehyun. There's no one else who would even bother him. Jaehyun likes to have fun playing with law and order -- Jaemin loves that for him -- but with the guise of keeping peace comes the punishment of creating havoc, and that's why Jaemin dances toe to toe with his wreck of a sibling.

If rebirth is real, he'd love to be born as Jaehyun's _older_ sibling this time. Boss him around a little. Dominate. Avenge this lifetime of being a very good younger brother.

Jaemin stares at the body bag. 

This is it. He's going to try contacting Huang fucking Renjun one last time and if he doesn't reply he'll make sure Jeno has no dick left for Renjun to enjoy, which will be sad because he's very well-built, very sexy. If Jaemin were into sexy things at all he wouldn't wait to go grab that man. His asexuality is a gift to Renjun, the idiot should thank him.

Stepping outside the room -- after disposing of his mask; he's just a criminal, not a bad human being -- he dials the hotel reception of where he helped those dumb fools book their honeymoon suite. This is his last resort and he'd been avoiding it to give the couple their space after they fought pretty bad in June, but no, he needs his best friend more than he needs real therapy right now.

He looks around the corridor and finds it empty, no cameras are facing him and this late at night, there's barely any chances of anyone eavesdropping with anybody on shift constrained to their cubicles. Besides, he's at the North Neo Investigation Bureau. People are always committing petty identity theft here.

The call connects. A polite greeting.

"Hi, this is Huang Xuxi, Huang Renjun's cousin?" He says, voice charming, "He's staying in room 703 with his partner Lee Jeno? Is there any way you can put me through to him, he isn't answering his phone."

The reception lady asks him to wait in a sweet voice and Jaemin starts a silent reverse countdown. Random beeping happens and he waits as he leans against a cold, white wall.

Renjun's voice comes shuffles through, "Xux --"

"You motherfucker."

  
  


今

  
  


Mark has many thoughts about the moments before sunrise. They become tangible for the slightest distortion in space, as fine silk spun with delicate hands. 

A sunrise feels soft in the most familiar of ways, in the way it drapes upon skin only to be felt at moments when conscience becomes a fleeting concept, in the way it clings to heat and crinkles, refusing to let go. 

These are filled with the warmth of turning the pages -- dry and a little dusty -- of your favourite book in the dim light of a day that is yet to begin; they're filled with the scent of nostalgia for nights lost to endless thoughts and the freshness of events that have no result in sight. A white sky, with whiter clouds and an even paler sheen of possibility hanging thinly at the edge of an unspoken end, that is what awaits past the boundary, but when the world is lost in dreams and slowly coming to life with every new window that lights up, any uncertainty can be forgotten. 

Moments like these… they vanish if you give in to temptation and close your eyes. Their touch is difficult to realise against jaded fingertips no matter how smooth, because smooth things can easily become slippery, like droplets of water running down the misted glass. 

_Like Donghyuck_ , he thinks, looking into the mirror while sloshing toothpaste foam in his mouth. 

Mark spent the night in Jungwoo's room, tossing around pillows and squirming in the sheets because falling asleep anywhere other than his designated sleeping spots is very difficult. He had even asked Donghyuck to be careful about the things in his room -- that it's a mess but it's an organised mess that shouldn't be disturbed too much. He wonders if Donghyuck is awake and has found the new toothbrush Mark took out from the extra toiletries Jungwoo keeps in his cupboard. Jungwoo will kill him for using his bathroom without permission, but Mark's just not going to tell him. When he comes back at night, Mark will feed him delicious food and say that Donghyuck slept on the floor or -- _like_ _hell_ , Jungwoo won't believe that shit.

Jungwoo isn't just good at catching lies, he's also good at saying nonsense and making it plausible. Half the things he says can't be traced back to any other source. Mark has spent years learning when to believe him blindly and when to brush it off. Today, he's unsure.

It was the second(?) maybe the third day of working with Donghyuck that Mark suspected things are off. It's already odd that Jungwoo brought someone to Neo, albeit he had reasons to be pitiful, however it doesn't fit right. He's soft-hearted but he wouldn't do anything without good reason, Mark is dead sure of that.

He rinses his mouth twice, then twice more to be sure before running cold water and splashing it onto his face.

Donghyuck is lively. His blood permanently thrums with a concoction of energetic hormones, but Mark also recognises that he's been particularly dulled. The first time they met, then the next, and even after then, he seems to be in a daze of sorts, as if Neo has been poisoning him slowly and turning him into a shadow.

Every once in a while, spurts of excitement spill through the cracks of his latest façade.

His words give away the fact that he doesn't know exactly what he's doing in Neo City, but that he knows why he left Seoul. He could be lying. So could Jungwoo. The idea of Jungwoo lying left and right doesn't sit well with him. Mark wants to understand how he reached Jaemin of all people, and what he did to be in danger after that. What did Jaemin even mean? From what Mark gathered, the only option other than keeping Donghyuck safe with them was that he would be killed. Why?

And if Jungwoo is lying about this, he could have lied about the man Mark hurt the other day. The fucker deserved it for trying to grope not just his ass but many other's after the meal -- and even then, sexual harassment is one thing and attempted assault is another. Mark shudders. The memory alone is horrifying, lewd stares and overly itchy fingers trying to come near him -- Mark just wants to know if he really died because he left that fucker injured.

Mark is already obsessed enough with the idea of Donghyuck's existence that he won't let him die. (Besides, Donghyuck can be of help.)

Mark likes Donghyuck fairly well. 

He strips off his clothes and takes off his glasses. It takes a minute before the shower runs hot water.

Mark has always had an inkling about these kinds of people. There haven't been many of them he's had the opportunity to come across. Although he's met enough to know what this feeling is well enough. A forewarning, a caveat from his guts. It tells him when there is space for more than friendship. 

With Donghyuck, Mark just knows that if he pursues this, they could evolve to have a very special relationship. Well. That's putting it too fancily, 

He's never been wrong before and there's no way he's wrong now. Logically, it could be his loneliness speaking -- like a bug in his system -- but even that can't change the way he feels when he talks to Donghyuck. Mark doesn't believe in the concept of soulmates, but he does believe that some people are certainly special and enter our lives for a reason. Lee Donghyuck's appearance in his life was sudden but it's mellowed out and Mark can't say that he doesn't enjoy it.

There's potential to stick with each other. If the situation was any different, he would have run away, and in this case, he cannot. A sign from the universe to get a new friend. Or a lover.

He's also convinced, for some ungodly reason, that if he reaches out to Donghyuck, that man will be here to stay forever. The glint in Donghyuck's eyes tells him that they love the same way -- which sends vibrations through Mark's bones -- and if he allows it, just allows it, they'll become inseparable.

 _Quite a grandiose delusion, dear brain_ , Mark huffs, lathering his hair with Jungwoo's super expensive, hair-care shampoo.

  
  


今

  
  


The graveyard they collected the body from is off the path at the very edge of the last district in the North. That address itself reduces Yukhei's bones to dust.

It smells of rot. The rancidness of curdled milk is enough to make Yukhei throw up most days, and here he is, standing in the aftermath of death -- in the middle of decay. He doesn't know why his job entails going to forgotten graveyards with drainage problems and maggots wriggling through the soil. There are flies in the corner, hovering around a badly placed headstone, and Yukhei knows that the tilled soil and peeking cloth means another case about to go up for debate between them and the government agencies. He wants to throw up, he's at the edge of disorientation.

For now, he looks away and adjusts the mask on his face. He murmurs a prayer for the people thrown here to rest in peace. They are here to check the grave their examination subject was pulled from. It had been an anonymous, manual complaint. A printed letter. 

"Look here," Yangyang starts, a gloved hand holding a cloth to his face and the other dragging along a shovel. He points to the dug up patch. The remains of a cheap wooden casket are strewn in the distance, and Yukhei gags at the visible tear of rotting skin stuck around an edge. 

What on earth happened here?

*

Yukhei gestures towards the body on the table, with a white cloth draped over it. A tuft of frail hair peeks from the top and the dirtied nail of a big toe peeks from the bottom. He walks closer to the legs and finds the rugged soles of the dead man flaking at the bends. He wants to die.

"You're saying that the graverobbing happened? How do you know that?" He asks the mortician -- professor Jeong, they had been told to call him.

He wears a mint green cloth on his head, but there are strands of dyed, pale hair peeking at his neck. His glasses reflect unfeelingly under the harsh lights of the examination room. Yukhei hates doctors and morticians or anyone who treats the dead like plastic dolls to be prodded at. He also -- secretly -- respects them.

"We didn't until last night." He answers in a carefree drawl, "I had sent the lab some of the soil samples I collected from this body after receiving the bureau's plea for help." His eyes turn upwards with mirth. Yukhei feels his throat constrict. How does this man have the gall to play around with a dead person in front of him?

"The result says there are two different soil samples," Yukhei says instead. He fiddles with his gloves.

"Correct. The body had been cleaned before his first burial, and sometimes, some soil can enter the coffin if it's loosely held, especially where this sad fellow had been buried. It's a hell of a place, poorly located, unkempt." He rattles on, the small of his back pressed against a counter. "It floods every monsoon and the canal system the previous pastor had them establish was a bad choice. That's an understatement. It leads to a lot of water underground. The stench in that graveyard is terrifying, which is why it's not used anymore."

"How did the complainant know? Why did he complain in the first place?" Yukhei asks himself, then bites his lip.

"I would like to know that as well. This man died just weeks ago as well. I wonder how he was discovered dead so quickly if he has no family."

"No family? Now, how do _you_ know that?" Yukhei questions. There were no records at the graveyard office -- as dead as the landscape outside -- and the facial disfiguration leaves no way to identify him. According to the report, there are no other significant features to the body that can help recognise him. Whoever this is must have led a painful life.

The mortician giggles -- which honestly freaks Yukhei out -- then grins, and it's only visible through his eyes again. His cheeks don't even move under the mask.

"An assumption, based on the fact that if he had a family -- and he died recently -- wouldn't it be a family member who would discover he was stolen from his grave for a little while? Because they would still visit customarily, or even out of emotion? It's a straightforward assumption, detective, I could be absolutely off the mark."

"If you weren't a mortician, you could have been a good detective." Yukhei duly notes.

"I know that."

A beat passes.

"I request you don't leave the body here if you've gone through the pains of bringing it so far. Have him sent to a morgue. I know you're here only because of a forced consultation, so I apologise if my report answers nothing. There's not much an examination can tell you about the reasons for a graverobbing, but I can assure you this man has been buried twice."

"You're taking good care of us, Professor." Yukhei answers, by instinct because he has been taught to be kind even if the other person is useless, "Thank you for your time."

"Hmm, I'm a doctor first, I take care of people." He says lazily, waving a gloved hand, "Now if you will, can you help me sign out in a few? I have places to be."

  
  


昔

  
  


The last time Mark saw Jeong Jaehyun in the flesh was in June, on the day of Taeil's birthday. 

It's been a tradition for years that no matter where they are or who they're with, the 14th of June is spent in the kitchen of their dormitory. The meeting had been expected then but seeing Jaehyun perched on a sofa in the main hall -- like the old days when they were younger and he still lived on the third floor -- on the first day of summer vacation is something of a fever dream.

"So, what are your plans this summer?" Jaehyun asks twenty minutes into aimless conversation. _How are you, where have you been, how's work._

"I'm thinking of spending some time with Jisung this year, maybe take a weekend trip? The usual otherwise." Sitting in my room, watching anime and reading k-pop boy fanfics, Mark thinks. If Jaehyun still knows him, that is. The other man laughs.

"How about brushing up your coding skills?" He suggests, fingers curled around a glass of water.

"There's no need for it," Mark slouches where he sits and stares at the faraway ceiling, "but yeah, I could give it a go."

"I was wondering if you could do me a favour?" 

"What is it?"

In the distance, the front door opens and closes. They don't know if someone came back or just left.

"We are building a student-friendly platform, something simpler than the existing student portal, for learning and information." We. As in the government. Not as in, Jaehyun, Taeil, Johnny, Taeyong, Mark, Jaemin, Jungwoo. It's a little sad, but Mark has learned to bite his tongue and cherish these few moments of familiarity he is afforded.

"That's cool, and? How can I possibly help you?"

"You're a teacher, and you can develop homebrews. We just need a few, to inculcate the idea that teachers can be fun too."

Jaehyun looks at Mark like he knows there can be no refusal.

"That's interesting. Since when were you part of the education ministry?" Mark chuckles and sinks further into the cushions, on his back, eyes closed.

"That's the fun part, I'm not. It's just extra burden on my shoulders to get through the elections this year. If I'm nice to the public and manage to do something better for the children, I can earn more favour." 

_As if the city doesn't love you already._

"Tough life, bro."

"For real."

"How do you feel about Pacman?" Mark suggests after basking in silence for a minute.

"Perfect, I'll give you the link to the website when it's ready." Jaehyun smiles, his dimples showing and Mark wants to tackle him with a strong hug because he looks so worn, but he can't. He doesn't know if he's allowed to anymore. Jaehyun is different now.

Mark throws a peace sign in his general direction.

*


	11. (十) I can't stop, I can't stop this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a slight error in the previous chapter, with the Mark and Irene scene. I miscalculated Jisung's age there -- he's thirteen. I've fixed it now but just a heads up for those who read it before I made the correction!
> 
> Heads up! This is a dialogue heavy chapter. 
> 
> new cw: violence, attempted child abduction (as little as possible), smoking, mention of a dead rodent and other dead people. 
> 
> Title from 127's love song, and my own feelings. This chapter was cut into half again because of how long it got. Give me strength. This isn't edited or beta'd yet. All mistakes are mine but you're not allowed to poke at those. Have fun!

昔

  
  


The rooftop is bare, with blocks of concrete and rubble under their feet, and in the distance, the sun lowers from its perch at the highest point in the sky, as scorching as a flaring temper.

A harsh fist meets Jaehyun's jaw. 

He throws out a hand and draws Jaemin closer. Older fingers dig into silver hair and younger ones find their way to crumple the stiff lines of a starched shirt.

Then another fist lashes out, but they don't know who threw it, just that someone did and it _hurt_. And yet another punch -- square in the solar plexus -- then one more for the hell of it -- a broken nose, smears of blood across mint coloured wool -- a kick and it's only when Jaemin topples off-balance that Jaehyun tugs at his collar and keeps him hanging, back bent at a precarious angle. Two brothers -- the same blood -- dribbling from one mouth and one nose onto the cracked floor.

Jaemin looks into Jaehyun's derisive eyes, then laughs. He laughs till his voice travels down 34 floors and reaches the streets. 

Jaehyun tightens his hold and it chokes off the voice for a fraction of a second before Jaemin stops and sneers. 

"You really think," he rasps, "we'll get what we want? In this economy?" He throws his head back and laughs wholeheartedly, the line of his neck pale and glistening under the sun. Jaehyun mutters choice curse words under his breath but straightens up and pulls Jaemin with him. His mouth floods with the taste of metal and he spits out blood. 

"What's wrong with you?" Jaehyun says more than asks. 

Jaemin shrugs, hands falling limp to his side, "You're the _Hyung_ , you tell me."

"No, you fucker, I can't tell you," Jaehyun says, forehead creased with tension, "Irene just died. She died, Jaemin, died. Do you hear me? And she's just one of the many you killed. You killed her, you know that right? Are you even listening?"

Jaemin lets his head loll to the side. The skyline looks breathtaking from here. Jaemin wishes someone would take his breath away forever. It's what he came here for anyway, tall buildings are good for just one reason when you're Na Jaemin and he could be dead before he hits the ground. If not for Jaehyun. Again.

"I know. I know it."

"For why, why, you --" Jaehyun purses his lips tightly but finds that he has to speak. He needs to let this all out because there's a surge of irritability whenever he sees Jaemin lose focus and he needs to fucking understand what the hell he has done. But there aren't enough words. Even if Jaehyun screams at the top of his lungs like he did before they fought, nothing will change.

Half a city away, stretched past flyovers and never-ending construction, a street is burning.

Oils from the site spill, then cement solvents catch onto fire, and shrill sirens pierce through innocent ears as fire brigades rush in -- too late -- and police cars ward off the area -- again, too late. 

Downtown is burning. 

People are screaming, shops are closing, the media is rushing to cover the disaster, fifteen people have already succumbed to death. It's been hours yet nothing is changing. Today, of all days, the heavy grey clouds hanging above them refuse to cry.

On a street in Downtown, charred and sooty, the Governess of Neo City escapes the fire alone because she's a guiltless critter. She survives over scraps of destiny. She will survive a fire set to kill her. A heated pole falls and barely misses her legs but someone steps on her hand in their haste to live. She cries in pain, a single mother sabotaged time and again by her own kin, but her cruelty outlives her love and she continues to squirm till someone finally wraps her in a safety blanket. 

She laughs as she is escorted to a hospital, much like the son that laughs on a rooftop.

In the car she fled from, the corpse of another single mother is licked by the flames. She suffocated to death an hour ago -- arm crushed and heart still -- and it had been an unknowing reporter who took her name on the news channel while reporting a massive fire destroying one of the busiest areas in Neo City.

A little ways from there, Mark shakes with fear as his mind goes numb. He stares at the current list of recognised casualties. Then he runs.

Farther away, Jisung sits in a locked classroom, solving a question on rotational dynamics when the speakers blare to life and the principal announces that all students living in Downtown, near the marketplace, must stay back at school because of unforeseen circumstances. 

Back on the rooftop, in the North, on top of the building where the Governess will return later that evening, Jaemin bubbles with laughter and tears.

Jaehyun pulls him closer and punches his jaw with all he can muster. There's a crackling sound.

"You're dead from now on." Jaehyun cups his face in his hands and peers into his glazed-over eyes. "Today, you died there while trying to start a fire, there's no reason for you to be alive when so many are dying."

"And whose fault is that?" Jaemin says, unable to look into his brother's eyes.

"You motherfucker, you bastard," Jaehyun chokes.

The scene is familiar but it's so jarringly wrong. He remembers the moon hidden behind clouds, his own hands dripping wet and a trail of red behind him with Jaemin's sturdy arms stabilising him, whispering words of comfort. 

This isn't Jaehyun repaying a debt. It's nothing. It's absolutely nothing. This is him being Jaehyun because whenever it is Na Jaemin at the other end of the string, he will never let the string tear.

And then he pulls Jaemin closer -- bruises darkening and tears falling down his face, caked in dirt and his own blood -- and hugs him. He holds him tight, arms pushing the boy as close to his body as possible, almost as if Jaehyun holds the power to strip off his flesh and make a cave for Jaemin to live inside him, safe and sound. He nuzzles into silver hair and feels afraid for once. When Jaemin hugs back, his arms have no strength.

Downtown continues to burn.

  
  


今

  
  


Lee Donghyuck wakes up in the haze of a dream. He blinks his eyes open, slow, as he gulps, his throat burning with the heat of possible acidic reflux. The sourness spreads over his tongue but doesn't reach his mouth and he swallows back some saliva, easing the discomfort. Belatedly, he realizes there's an empty ache in his stomach. 

Still caught up in the muddiness of broken sleep, he props himself up on an elbow and shifts higher onto the pillow, so that both his head and his shoulders lie on top of it. 

What catches him off guard is a fruity scent in the air -- almost as if someone just squeezed a glass of mixed fruit juice. Then he recalls how he'd left the hotel last night. He's further down the city, in an isolated housing complex -- or at least that's what he remembers thinking on the way here -- where Mark lives. He fell asleep in Mark's bed -- his cheeks warm up, which makes him question himself once again -- and he's also lying awake in said bed, fuzzy and confused. He feels… content. It's a good thing to feel after so long.

"Do you need some water?" 

"Hm?" Donghyuck turns his head to find a pale hand gesturing to the empty bottle of water he left on the bedside table.

"Hyuck, do you need water? Should I get you some?" 

Mark sits in his desk chair, at an odd angle, cross-legged, but the way his legs are folded look extremely uncomfortable and he seems fine with it for some reason -- perhaps he is blessed with extra flexibility, genetic lottery -- with his hands firmly grasping onto his ankles. He looks like a tired cat, folding in on itself, cute but cautious. This is what cute pets would look like if they wore glasses. Even his hair stands on end -- damp from a shower and towel-dried -- and Donghyuck extends a socked foot to nudge at Mark's shin. 

"Good morning," Donghyuck says. 

"Good morning," Mark replies, eyes flitting away to stare at a point on the younger man's chest. 

"I'll have some water," he says, looking at Mark's expression -- earnest, a little fidgety, "but first," he continues in a soft voice, "tell me what you're thinking? You look pensive."

"Pensive? Strange word choice, Hyuck." Mark says with a small smile. He leans forward, and Donghyuck is afraid he'll fall but he's close enough to the bed that he won't hurt himself, will just drop onto the mattress.

"I'm good at English, I know," Donghyuck says, rubbing a sweater-paw over his face.

"Are you always like this when you wake up?" 

"Wouldn't you like to find out, Lee?"

Mark gently nudges Donghyuck's foot back onto the mattress and under the midnight blue duvet. He leaves his hand there, fingers skimming over the stretch of clean skin beneath the hem of his sweatpants. So soft. So comfortable. Donghyuck wants to pull him into his arms and cuddle him to death. How violent.

"Did you sleep well? It gets noisy this time of the year, too much wind."

"The balcony door was shaking a little, but I slept just fine. I don't feel stressed, it's been a long time since I've slept this… freely." Donghyuck says, and he finds it to be the truth.

The muted ache in his shoulders fell away sometime last night, giving him peace -- thank god, for once Donghyuck's back doesn't hurt like a bitch -- and allowing him to calm down. He spent hours in bed just thinking. About Mark, about the strange predicament he's caught in, about his position in life, and even about the smaller things he could have done differently if he knew better. There's no point mulling on what-ifs, and Donghyuck has been telling himself that ever since doubt started popping up in his head like fungus in a moist room, but that's all he seems to be doing whenever he isn't busy.

It's a phase, he thinks. He'll get over it.

Sleeping in Mark's room -- in a room well-lived in, with scratches left on the walls by furniture, by the passage of time -- he's found comfort in the feeling of home. If he doesn't have anything inside him, Donghyuck is always allowed to borrow emotions from his surroundings, and he borrows the feeling of a home rooted in memories of boyhood.

He doesn't fear for his life after a month of frayed nerves and building tension in his body.

He looks at Mark again. 

Fuzzy. Warm. On the brink of human.

"You freshen up," Mark says, unfolding his legs, "and I'll bring you some hot water."

  
  


昔

  
  


For the first time in the 18 years that he has known her, Donghyuck's mother burns toast. She claims she's a wizard but today, her magic seems to show the first signs of wearing off.

"Why doesn't dad ever come to visit?" Donghyuck asks, separating the yolk from his egg whites. His food went cold a long time ago, way before his mother sat down to eat, and he continues to prod at the rubber-like edges as she washes the dishes. 

"What dad?" She says, voice small enough to drown beneath the gushing of the sink.

"Mom, not again. Please, can you just answer me for once?" 

Donghyuck pushes back his chair but finds himself unable to get up. There aren't many rules in this household. One of them, however, is that he isn't allowed to leave food on his plate. His mother looks over her shoulder, then throws him a dangerous look.

"I'm not going to let you call that criminal your father." 

He opens his mouth to retort, with something hopefully smart, but his eyes catch onto an ant scurrying along the edge of the table. He flicks it off, and as he does, he feels weirded out. He looks at his mother -- short, feeble, thin-wristed -- and then he looks at the ceiling that hasn't been repainted since his birth.

He clenches his fists and grits his teeth, trying to keep the anger willing in his guts at bay. 

"Might as well call me a criminal then, for kissing boys." 

"Don't talk to me like that." She chides, haughtily. She turns away and Donghyuck bites his lower lip before picking up his chopsticks again. He tears off a small bite, then shoves it into his mouth. Salty.

"That's different, Hyuckie, it's who you are," she says as gently as she can, "it's not a choice. I fell in love with that worm once. You don't choose who you fall for. But you do choose who you stay with and I will not allow that man here."

"He's still my father though --" he tries, and she shushes him.

"Enough, Donghyuck. Go help your sister in the garden, she shouldn't be taking so long."

Yeah, she shouldn't be taking so long. But Donghyuck knows she is talking to her boyfriend on the phone, whispering words of encouragement -- maybe some words of gross affection he can't bear to hear from her mouth -- and he continues staring at his mother's thin back, the whole yolk finding itself in his unforgiving mouth.

"Mom… Mom, do you not care, that we're growing up without a second parent?" 

"Don't speak with food in your mouth. and did it help your ex-boyfriend, Hyuck? Having two voices screaming in his head? Did you see what became of him?"

Donghyuck's mouth goes dry. He swallows.

"Chul… you knew about Chul? You never said anything," he says, eyes fixed on the simple knot that holds his mother's apron -- and the rest of her world -- together precariously.

"I'm your mother and I was born very long ago, even if I don't look so ancient. I know that having two parents is good. I'm not even home most of the time, and now you're going to Seoul and I know you'll neve-- you will be busy there. It's fine now. We'll be fine, your sister and I."

"But that's exactly it." He feels like an asshole -- stop speaking, he tells himself -- but he continues to ask. Not looking at her face helps. "What about me? What if I wanted a father in my life and you never let me have him."

"Then I'm the main character of your villain origin story. I pay your fees, I give you money for what you like, I work more than three jobs, then I cook for you and I make sure you have a roof over your head. While that worm doesn't show his face again. He probably drowned before we got married, Hyuckie, there's no point in looking for a man like that."

"You're guilt-tripping me." But it's fine, he knows, because she isn't lying, and she means no harm.

She keeps aside the bowl she had been washing and picks up another one -- all chipped off rims, flaking bottoms. He's told her to buy more cutlery, but she never does, says she doesn't have the money, and yet, she pays for his stupidest expenses. She pays for his trip to Busan and she wants to pay for most of his education but she doesn't buy new bowls to eat in and uses the same chopsticks they used when Donghyuck still had a father.

"I'm trying my best to be a supportive mother, much beyond my years. Is being human a mistake?"

"I want to see him. Once. He is human too." And even if he can't be a father, he owes us _something_ , Donghyuck thinks.

"You're an adult. Find him yourself, darling. I'm afraid I haven't cared about him in years."

She continues to wash the dishes. 

Donghyuck only finishes his egg when she dries her hands on the kitchen towel and moves to clean the living room. The scrubber is sharp at the edges -- the only new thing he can see. He washes his dishes himself.

  
  


今

  
  


Donghyuck is playing with the curled-in corner of an anime poster on the wall next to Mark's bed. It is worn. The wall is also a little atrocious with it's filled pinks and blues between newer posters. From the left, a cartoon violin smiles at Donghyuck; from the right, a horror flick announcement from years ago sends a chill down his spine. Everything about this room screams 'college dormitory' more than 'adult bedroom'. 

Thinking about it, he had pegged Mark as the sort to have a sleek, modern bedroom with minimalist furniture. He was wrong.

When the door opens again, Donghyuck turns to look at Mark -- soft sweatshirt, soft shorts, fluffy hair -- and he feels trapped in time. It's as if this moment has occurred before. Not once or twice, but many times through the years. A younger Mark at the threshold, sometimes with a bag or sometimes with a stack of books in his arms, reflects through the myriads of memories this room must hold, and Donghyuck floats in them. 

Mark is stuck in the hold of a time that has long gone. So is Donghyuck.

"Would you like anything else?" Mark asks, closing the door behind him carefully. He carries a tray in his hands, with blendy sticks, two cups and an adorable hot water kettle. "Tea? Coffee? We have a cook who comes by at this time, I think she can prepare something to ea --"

"Just water. I just brushed, tea will taste weird." Donghyuck says, nodding thanks as Mark hands him a cup. 

It's a lovely one, ceramic blasted with light blue, no handles and a rounded rim. Almost too expensive to serve a blendy stick.

"Where are we?" 

"My home," Mark says, for the thousandth time perhaps since they reached here the previous night, without a single speck of tiredness or irritation on his face. He sets the tea down, then sits back in his chair and grabs a scissor.

"I thought you lived in an apartment building." 

"I'm not as rich as you think I am." He giggles, shaking the contents of a Houjicha flavoured sachet into his cup and stirring it.

"How long have you lived here?" Donghyuck asks, eyes flitting back to the aged posters.

"Middle school."

Donghyuck raises an eyebrow. He blows on his water. The steam rises into his face.

"These used to be our official school dorms. That is until things happened and the Governess purchased the premises. Jaehyun -- the Mayor, remember -- used to live here with us so it made sense, and she allowed us to stay here as long as we arranged our own bill money. Most of us didn't have anywhere to go back then." Mark takes a careful sip, then flinches back, the tip of his tongue red and poking past his lips. Donghyuck needs to stop staring at his lips. It's becoming an unhealthy fixation.

"What happened? I've never heard of stuff like this." Donghyuck takes a much-needed sip of water. The heat soothes him as much as it stings. "I mean, there were no hostels in the area I lived in, and I never thought things like this could happen. I lived in dorms at uni for a while, never even imagined they could be sold off."

"Not if they're a government institution, they can't, especially when students are living there. I don't know about Korean laws, but that's how it works in our country, and by extension in the city." 

"Doesn't Neo have different laws?"

"Not too many. Just the few, being capital and all. Common sense, Hyuck.

"This complex belonged to the Jeong's before it belonged to the school -- sold for money when she wasn't the Governess yet. It's still too small to be a dorm, you see," Mark gestures towards the door and Donghyuck understands he's talking about the meagre number of rooms on each floor, "so they bought this whole apartment complex. 

"Then we got to know this very building was built where the ancestral Na house used to be -- Jaehyun's father's -- and that he had died here. No one wanted to shift here, very recent history, yeah?"

"Ghost stories?" Donghyuck grimaces, his palms warm to the point they feel sensitive.

"That. And then some things happened. A series of deaths at the high school, then around the city. The old Governor was killed, there was some cult shit going around. A lot happened. The Governess bought back the complex when she was elected. And she allowed us to stay when Jaehyun asked."

"That's a fucking mess. Sounds like a story for Netflix."

"I should write it and sell it to them. I can ask my writer friend to do it." Mark says, a lovely curve to his lips.

The room falls into silence -- mostly, save for the sounds of drinking hot water. 

Then, Donghyuck shuffles in his place and fixes a huge pillow behind his back for comfort, "Can we talk now? You said we will talk in the morning. I have so many questions, Mark." He says, looking at Mark's nonchalant figure.

"We have been talking. But yes. Yes, we can. I have questions too." Mark sighs, "One by one? We aren't going anywhere unless we clear shit out, plus, communication is not the hill I choose to die on."

Donghyuck doesn't understand what he means, but he nods, figuring they'll work it out question by question. It's going to be too slow, he knows, and his stomach starts collapsing with the urge to speak, the same way it does when he isn't being heard. He shakes his ankle but the way he's sitting makes it difficult.

"Okay, I'll go first," he says, "why am I here?" 

Mark swallows a huge gulp then covers his mouth. His eyes scrunch closed behind his glasses -- the lower half fogged up -- before taking another gulp and sighing with a heavy chest sound. His knee bounces.

"Complex answer. I need time." He clears his throat.

"I'll wait. Tell me when you have words." 

"It's complicated," he says again, eyes still closed.

"I'll kiss you if you tell me, Mark Lee." Donghyuck says. He moves to sit against the wall and stretches his legs out, giving his aching ankles space to jitter as much as they need to. His legs, long as they are, extend to the edge of the bed, with his toes inches away from Mark's knees. 

Mark splutters. "That -- That's not a fair proposition." 

As expected, his ears turn a pleasant tint of red and his face gives away what he refuses to speak -- that he is indefinitely affected by Donghyuck's advances, in the best possible way. If he were truly uncomfortable, he would avoid Donghyuck at least once. But he never does. Even when he's given the window of opportunity to turn away. 

"This isn't court," Donghyuck says, then slides lower and wiggles his foot off the bed in Mark's direction. Predictably, Mark pushes his chair closer until he can't anymore, and Donghyuck prods him.

Mark closes the heated fingers of one hand on Donghyuck's calf -- just like he did earlier that morning -- and slides his thumb across the projection of his tibia.

"You won't run away, will you?" he asks and Donghyuck points at his leg in reply.

"I can't even if I want to, chief, you've got me. Also, I think I've made it pretty clear that I'm interested in you." Donghyuck enjoys the gratifying expression on Mark's face, "I also chose to trust you," he says in a calm, low tone, "I'll ask again, why am I in this city? Why did Jungwoo want to keep me safe, is he doing something?"

Mark swallows more of his tea before flexing his neck side to side. Then he opens his mouth to speak and wets his lips as he starts.

"Um. Firstly, because somebody is looking for you." _The most dangerous man in Neo_ , "He is someone I have a very complicated relationship with. He's my benefactor of sorts and Jisung's by extension, and we worked together for a long time. This building also belongs to him."

"The Mayor?" Donghyuck asks, suddenly remembering his discovery from the night before.

"No." 

"Another political bigshot?"

"No. Jaehyun's brother, Na Jaemin," Mark says, moving his hand to press his fingers into the stressed muscles.

"Okay, and?" 

"I can't believe you've lived in Neo for what, almost a month, and you don't know who Na Jaemin is?"

Donghyuck narrows his eyes, "I spent most of that time tailing you. You never told me, how would I know?"

"That's. Okay, I'm sorry, he's technically a dead person, but he's still around, except no one should kno --" 

"What the fuck?" Donghyuck's eyes widen, then he puts on a scandalised expression and covers his chest, "I'm living at a zombie's house? --" He recalls blood on a white shirt and barely suppresses shaking due to a spike of fear, "-- A murderer zombie to boot!"

"Keep your voice down!" Mark whispers, completely dramatic -- a finger on his lips and a thin smile.

"The fuck, Mark Lee? Are you a cult member? Is this why you're seducing innocent people, to turn them into zombies -- oh no --" he whines.

"Donghyuck, stop," Mark giggles, cheeks pink, "No that's not it, at all. But _you_ need to tell me more before I can tell you more."

His voice turns serious, and Donghyuck drops the act.

He keeps his cup on the bedside table. Then lowers his shoulders and slips further down to lie down on the bed. If he keeps looking into Mark's eyes… God help him, Donghyuck isn't going to be able to ask any questions. He needs to speak. He needs to let out the things that have been eating at him, to pluck out the pincers of thoughts that aren't required. 

Mark's moves to accommodate the change in posture. His fingers continue running along the circumference right below the knee, where Donghyuck's leg bends to rest on Mark's thigh, his toes touching the back of the chair and heel supported against Mark's pelvis. 

It's so intimate. He wants this moment to dissolve into the solvent of eternity.

"Hmm. Okay. What about the Jungwoo thing? What do you know?" Donghyuck asks. He focuses on the bookshelf. 

"As for Jungwoo, I honestly don't know. I'm the wrong person to ask. He _did_ lie to you, and from what I'm told it was for your benefit. If anything, I know Jungwoo has a good head on his shoulders, but he doesn't make independent decisions very often. I think someone else is involved." 

Donghyuck hums. There's an anatomy atlas on one of Mark's shelves. The closer he looks the more he finds there is to dig.

"My turn," Mark huffs, "Why are you here? Why are you in Neo?"

"You're asking me --"

"I need to know why you decided it was a good idea to come here when you could have gone back to Jeju." His nails scratch over the fabric lightly.

  
  


昔

  
  


The night is cold, as it often is during rainy June nights. There's very little visible beyond the brick boundaries and iron gates of the dorm complex, but the back garden is lit up with fairy lights. It's a beautiful sight. Chenle rushes around with a reel of coloured, Christmas lights -- Jisung chases him with a bouquet of plastic roses in his hands. 

Away from their laughter, Jaemin and Renjun share a cigarette on the rooftop. 

"Am I a villain, Injunnie?" Jaemin asks, leaning against the low concrete wall, eyes following his younger brother's straw-like hair. His cardigan pools on the floor. The lighter rests on top of it. Renjun sits with his back to the wall, hidden from view, huffing out smoke into the humid air.

"You might as well be. The question is," He passes the cigarette to Jaemin, "Is _that_ what you want to be known as?"

Jaemin stares at the orange tip, "I don't know. I don't know if I want to leave behind even the smallest part of me."

"Are you still mad about it?"

Truly speaking, Jaemin is mad at many things. He is barely 23. He is supposed to be enjoying his university life hopping from classroom to classroom, from one surgery room to another weekend observationship, coming back home to whatever family he has and eating dinner peacefully. Seems like God wasn't in his favour when the world was built. His fate has some severe problems.

"About the child? No, I wasn't even mad, just… you know how these things work. It's complicated." He sighs, and breathes in. 

The smoke fills his mouth, then his throat, and when it makes him feel like his chest is finally full of something other than the pain of fresh heartbreak, he exhales.

"I don't," Renjun says, honest, "I don't know how it works. All I know is that you're sad and that you're stuck somewhere you don't want to be. What do you really want, Jaem? Why have you worked so hard all your life? I know this isn't where you wanted to be. Ever."

Jaemin scoffs. He holds out the cigarette to Renjun, who simply folds his hands and leans forward to take it with his lips. Jaemin holds still before Renjun sits back again. 

"If you know that, then you also know why. Plus, it's just you who thinks I work hard. Even I don't feel I've made many efforts to change where I was headed." Jaemin says. Suddenly, Chenle shrieks. Jaemin whips his head around but finds Jisung tackled the other onto the ground. Silly children. They're lovely. 

"But you always knew. More or less you're exactly where you knew you would be."

"Is it bad that the answer is yes?" Jaemin smirks.

Renjun smacks his leg with the back of his hand, "Is this what you want?"

The things Huang Renjun asks are magnanimous. Jaemin is a simple man. He doesn't know how to answer things beyond his depth but he tries for the sake of his angry, little best friend. There are many things to be wanted -- ranging from a beautiful pen to world presidency -- but Na Jaemin wants very few of those. He wants to get closer to Taeil, he wants to take Mark to the museum someday, he wants to sleep under the sun -- curled up like a cat -- and he wants Jaehyun to stop speaking to their fucking birth parent and to come back home, where he belongs, in the kitchen snipping coriander leaves with blunt scissors. Perhaps he _is_ a liar. There are many things he adds to his checklist of wants that will have to be granted to the Jaemin of some other universe.

"What I really want… is to move back to my father's birthplace. Buy a small place in Nagoya, have a verandah and plant Sakura there. That's what I want right now," he says instead.

"Then why don't you do it? I know you're rich -- don't even try to deflect -- your mother is fucking made of money. Take your share and go." Renjun says, and oh he knows, like he always does, that Jaemin is a filthy liar.

"Go for what. Even if I leave, I won't be at peace."

"Why not?"

"This is my home, Injunnie. You know that better than anyone else. I was born in Neo and I will die in Neo, there's no other way to do this."

"You sound a hell lot like Mark." Renjun laughs. The cigarette dies, ashes fluttering in the breeze. Jaemin crushes it under his shoe. Renjun pulls a new stick out of nowhere.

"We're very similar."

"You're more of an emotional prick," Renjun says, picking up the lighter.

"That's new. One could argue I'm the immoral one."

"Yeah, perhaps, but I know if it were him in your place, we wouldn't be having this conversation. You're too soft, Jaemin, much too moral for whatever shit you claim to be."

"Shut up, you should have studied psychology." It comes out softer than Jaemin intended, but it is all right as long as Renjun continues to snigger, the glow of a small flame illuminating his face. He looks ethereal. He shouldn't be here, not on a godforsaken rooftop, not with him and yet he is. Jaemin thanks his stars for the one good thing he has -- this man. Everybody leaves but this pest doesn't. People break his heart as if he were worth a dime but this fucker cuddles him after midnight and tells him about interesting case studies from university. Jaemin loves him so much, he wishes he could replace Jaehyun.

"Don't really like most of those, my ex was one, remember? Thought she had to analyse my life in and out for shit. Healthy this, healthy that… anyway, you could become a psychiatrist though, sell drugs to people. Legally, this time."

"Honestly," The new cigarette is offered to Jaemin first, "I agree, but shut it, Injunnie, I think I'll drop out anyway. We finish basic surgery in a few months, then I'm done, I guess."

"You want my advice?" Renjun asks.

"No," Jaemin says, flatly.

"Take it anyway. Keep running the 22/11, don't branch out of there. It's a nice place. Tiny. Invisible. Don't bite more than you can chew."

"I would never."

Renjun blows out smoke steadily, "Are you afraid for Jaehyun? Don't be. I'm going to be on his legal team, I can always keep you posted, you're family." 

"I don't think that's allowed." Jaemin smiles.

"So what --"

"Don't drag yourself into our family matters further. You'll get hurt. The Governess is unforgiving." And it's the truth. She is one mean bitch. Jaemin doesn't know if he can ever grow to love her. 

The wind gets colder.

"Jaemin, you're like my brother. You're more than that. I owe you my life, and if I have to do something to save yours, fuck it, I'll do it even if it lands me in jail."

"You already have, more than enough times too. Not again."

"I fucking hate you, Jaem. Just as much as I love you."

"Running theme of my life, lovely."

  
  


今

  
  


"...There isn't much left in Jeju anymore. My mom lives there. Recently, she got a new boyfriend and I don't like him, but she does." Donghyuck says. It's not a lie, but it isn't the complete truth. There is too much insecurity in his heart to bare everything in someone else's bed right away.

"You never mentioned that before," Mark notes, surprised.

"We haven't done the whole exchanging tragic backstory thingy yet. Sad, I know." 

"You're taking this surprisingly well," Mark says. He tries to take another sip from his glass but finds it empty. "Why don't you like him?"

"There is nothing to like." Donghyuck says -- as honest as he can be -- "I don't know him enough, all right. Never met him, never spoke to him either, don't need to. It's her business, not mine."

Mark frowns. Donghyuck wants to reach out and dig his fingers into the dips of the corner's of his mouth to push it into a smile. In his head, the image of such a smile is very box-like. He stretches his arms into the air before throwing them down, one hand landing on Mark's wrist, grip strong.

Mark speaks again. "So much so that you couldn't go home to save your life?"

"You do know exactly what happened. Are you pretending --"

"I'm not lying, if that's what you're implying," he rushes, "I heard a second-hand retelling from Woo. Someone was ready to chase you in Seoul, that's all I've heard."

"Then you must've heard that the client I was asked to work for is from here. They're a citizen of Neo, the request came from this city."

"Vaguely."

"Do you think Jungwoo hired me?" Donghyuck asks. 

It's something that has been nagging him since the moment he met that man. The entire first encounter, the sudden friendship, this invitation to Neo -- everything had been shady since the beginning -- seemed carefully orchestrated. If there is one thing he knows for sure, it's that truth is stranger than fiction, but it is often shockingly simple once you have all the facts in the picture. Donghyuck doesn't have any facts on hand. He has Mark's warm skin rubbing against his and the material of his sale-bought bedsheets under another 

"No," Mark says with pinched eyebrows -- contemplating -- and hesitance, "if he had, he wouldn't be this worried. But I think it has to be someone he knows. He is kind but not enough that he'd vouch for a stranger, never. You have something. You know what -- my turn. What are you hiding? What is it that you have, that makes you important enough to keep alive?"

Donghyuck bristles.

"I don't like how that question sounds."

"I want to trust you more than I already do," Mark says, eyes pleading, "please give me a reason to."

"Photographs," he murmurs in response, then coughs once before speaking louder, "I told you before, I think, while we were at a jazz bar last week. I was sent to photograph a wildlife conservation fundraiser in east Africa. The client was anonymous. Most photographs I took were submitted to a wildlife magazine, chosen carefully, of course. I think it was a person I was sent to capture on camera."

"What sort of person would need to be photographed like that? Such a big ruse for such a simple thing?" Mark questions.

Exactly. That's what Donghyuck had asked himself, even to his ex-boss, and he continues to ask himself this because he can't believe what a dumb fool he has been proving he is by going along with the flow of things. He shakes his ankle again but Mark rubs lower and presses there till the movement stops.

"I do know that there was a big illegal trader's son from Seoul. I made sure not to photograph him, I value my life enough." Donghyuck says.

"How did you recognise him though?"

"Saw a file on him in my colleague's cabin."

"And they chased you," Mark says matter-of-factly.

"And they chased me, but not as far as I had thought. Only the day I landed. When I reached my apartment, nothing happened. I thought I'd be dead."

Mark stares at him with round eyes, and of course, why wouldn't he. Donghyuck himself doesn't believe the way the cards have turned out to be in his favour, not just once, but two times counting his run-in with this Na fellow. Two times where Donghyuck saw things he shouldn't have, belonging to people who should have killed him the first moment possible, and he is sitting here in Mark Lee's bedroom drinking water out of an expensive cup. What luck.

"Mark?" Mark hums in response. "Who is this Na person? Why are they looking for me?"

"You… did something. I'm not sure what, though. He told me I need to help find someone in a neon hoodie at a certain time in a certain place. I didn't need to look. The little benefits of making out with a stranger, I guess?"

Donghyuck chuckles bitterly.

Life. Middle fingers to life. Many, many middle fingers to life, he needs extra hands to do this shit. Maybe he'll ask his distant friends to lend him hands or something. Maybe Mark would too.

"He committed a crime," Donghyuck says.

"I figured."

"And you still live here? Under the roof of a murderer? Tell me, Mark Lee, are you a killer too? If I ask the people of this city about Na will they also talk about a Lee?" 

"Not really… but don't say that name publicly, he's not supposed to be --"

"Is he Voldemort?" The joke doesn't even feel funny. Donghyuck feels acid at the back of his throat. Is his new crush a criminal on the run? How much more fucked up can things be. He should just drop the idea of trying to live a harmless life, that idea was flushed down the drain he was born.

"Minus the ugliness," Mark says. He doesn't look at Donghyuck, simply stares into the distance.

"Hyuck, I just thought of something."

"You think an awful lot, young lad." Another flat joke, but better than before. _Guts tight, Lee Donghyuck._

"What's with you talking like you're from a Jane Austen novel," Mark says, mostly to himself, but since Donghyuck hears it, he finds it his duty to reply.

"I'm using all the English forced down my throat by the education system."

"Hmm, this isn't the time to be funny."

"I figured being too serious will kill me before this Na person can."

"Didn't you trust me?" Mark whispers, thoughts still tethered to the margins of a different dimension.

"Knowing you live with a murderer? Not enough."

"Good. You mustn't. Now listen," he looks back at Donghyuck, hair falling into his eyes, not round enough, not sparkly enough to be his, "he won't harm you, not as long as you're with me. I'm, somewhat, like family. And if there's anything that man is, he's loyal, so if anything happens to you, we both go down together, I swear upon my life."

"I'm a stranger to you and a target to him."

"Perhaps you weren't meant to be one. You sure don't feel like it."

"I'm under the roof of a murderer." Donghyuck repeats. His throat quivers and he stops speaking, afraid he will sound more wobbly than his dead grandfather's knees.

Mark removes his hand from Donghyuck's leg and the loss of warmth feels like the beginning of all things bad and icy, almost as if the world had started spinning again -- at the wrong velocity and in a different orbit. 

Something snaps away. But then Mark pushes his leg off -- and Donghyuck fears he will finally die here -- to unfold his legs. He climbs onto the bed within the blink of an eye. The next thing Donghyuck knows, Mark's fringe is tickling his forehead. Donghyuck closes his eyes, unable to put up with the proximity. The room feels ten degrees too hot. The mattress dips where elbows and knees bracket Donghyuck's lithe body. All he can smell is soap and the remnants of tea. Mark. Something snaps back into place.

"You're under the roof of perhaps the most affluent people in this city, even if some of them are a little… illegal. I need some help, actually. With that."

"I'm not doing anything illegal." Donghyuck rushes to say.

"I'm not going to ask you to. I've got a situation and you've got experience with these things. Professional experience, no less." Mark hesitates. He pulls back a little, giving Donghyuck more space as he arranges himself on all fours.

"Are you going to try and strike a deal?" Donghyuck asks, eyes still closed.

"Maybe."

"Will I be safe? Will you keep me alive?" he opens his eyes. He wishes he hadn't. Mark is so beautiful from down here -- the glint of danger in his eyes, the hard set of his jaw, a faint scar under his jaw. 

"I just swore on my life," Mark replies in a whisper.

"I need it in writing. And I need someone else to keep it but I don't have anyone else I can trust here. You do see my situation, don't you? No one to turn to, no one to ask for help, and I've got barely any way to help myself. It's pathetic." Donghyuck feels pathetic.

"I know. It is, I won't deny it."

"What am I even supposed to do."

"You can go back to Jeju tonight. I'll drive you to the airport myself, and I'll pitch in whatever more you need to fund your tickets. Then you can pretend none of this ever happened. Neo was a fever dream, or better, just a short vacation. It's your choice. I said this last night and I'll say it again, you can choose, it's not too late. Unfortunately, if you agree to help me, Donghyuck, there will be no turning back." Mark says and waits as Donghyuck searches for the right words to respond.

Mark's phone vibrates but he pays no attention and continues to steal the breath right from Donghyuck's lungs. Perhaps this will be the moment Donghyuck will think about for the rest of his life. He could have asked to be sent back to Jeju. He could have said no. 

(But damn him and damn his weakness for cute men. He is going to hell for his audacity.)

"But what if I don't want that?" Donghyuck asks, and he feels so fucking vulnerable like this, why isn't the bed swallowing him like he's an insignificant dust bunny, "I don't know, Mark. I don't think I want to go back even if I could."

"Why? Weren't you packing to leave last night?"

"I-I haven't…" I haven't felt so alive in two whole years. I haven't felt what home is supposed to be and sitting here in your room makes me wish I lived here too, just for the warmth of it. What is he even supposed to say? What is he supposed to answer with? The truth? That there's nothing left to go back for? That his mother has someone now, his sister is sufficient, no friend is waiting to see him in Seoul and that Neo feels like an old acquaintance he wants to befriend again? 

That no matter how frightening things are, they don't scare him enough. Along the streets of Neo, Donghyuck is learning to acknowledge his malfunctioning moral compass.

This is where Lee Donghyuck dies. He dies because he feels too much and he feels too less. He comes undone and bursts into liquid flesh, seeping through the massive pores of the jute bag he had spun himself. As his shelter rots, he is reborn. Under Mark's calculating eyes, he learns to reshape himself as he deems fit. Everything makes sense when, in fact, nothing aligns. His head feels clear suddenly.

There are things he doesn't know. And that is fine because he can learn.

His heart is wrong but it is better than it has been in years.

"I need t --" Mark's phone vibrates continuously and he sits up, knees touching Donghyuck's thighs, to look at it with a frown. It must be important.

"We have a guest," Mark's frown deepens, "and he knows I brought someone over. Taeil hyung is asking us down for breakfast -- you and me both."

"Do we need to?" Donghyuck asks, chest rising and falling. This is not good for his health.

"We must."

  
  


昔

  
  


Jisung is a tall kid.

He has grown so much taller, Mark notices when they stand together again. Not long ago, the whorl of his hair used to reach Mark's waist.

He plays tennis, he runs, he dances and even spends a lot of time studying. He slinks into Irene's study with a request to buy new games for his PlayStation, and he likes watching music channels on the television when he's free. All in all, he's a well-rounded child with many hobbies. 

Good for him.

Mark was never like that. He stuck to learning instruments and only dabbled in specific fields of interest. Mark wonders that if he knew more about how points are counted in tennis or what some dance moves are called he could be a better friend to Jisung. All he knows is how to play the violin, the piano and how to write sheet music. His fingers are calloused but his body isn't muscled even half as much as the average high school athlete -- he exercises occasionally but that's it. (Bless genetics for keeping him lean.)

Jisung is a golden child. Mark blows up with pride like a hot air balloon. He's freshly 14 but he's already more amazing than anyone could have dreamed. 

When Mark was 14, he was busy figuring out how to clean the speakers of his Nintendo DS. 

But sometimes, he wonders if the reason Jisung takes up every activity available on the block is to avoid the adults who surround him. 

Mark is slow on the uptake when things involve him, but he's good at immediately figuring out exactly what is going wrong.

Jisung doesn't like him enough. Which is valid. 

Mark Lee might be like the trail of a shooting star, but that's all he is, he's a trail that disappears and he's never been excessively loving in the way he has learnt to expect. He's going to turn 23 -- he knows how relationships work -- and yet he is lost in the face of his own blood.

At 14, thoughts can be fuzzy, so Mark starts giving Jisung all the space he might need. He only shows up when Irene asks him to. He doesn't visit Jisung's school, never picks him up, never drops him unless Jisung asks himself, never meddles with anything at all and perhaps this is what they call a blind spot.

In the haste to be a good person -- a good uncle, or brother, or whatever he can be -- Mark forgets that Jisung is young but not needless.

And being that age is very complicated. 

Jisung refuses his offer to go to the cinema one sunny afternoon -- out of sheer spite because school has been difficult and the people there give him an aneurysm -- which Mark takes in stride. However, Mark never asks him again, not consciously, but that's the way he works and in his thick brain-file labelled 'Nephew Jisung' there's a note saying Jisung doesn't like going to the movies with him. It shuts down his machinery. The production of thoughts in that direction stops. Jisung, sweet and trying his best to understand, feels like he's blown up his only chance.

But Mark always brings him the sweets -- the ones he confessed to liking during a silent dinner -- and he tries to learn how to cook whatever food Jisung eats enjoyably.

And Mark hates being disturbed, so Jisung never approaches him when Mark is reading or scribbling something in his diary. He never realises that if Jisung asked, Mark would stop whatever he was doing and pay attention to him instead. 

Slowly, that realisation dawns.

They spend more time playing board games, and Jisung teaches Mark how to play Uno. In turn, Mark watches him practice tennis some days, then they eat ice-cream without telling Irene. 

"Hyung," Jisung says as they share bites of a strawberry crêpe, "I heard you went to the same high school as me."

"I did," Mark says. He cleans the frosting on Jisung's cheek with a thumb.

"You never told me." 

"I… I must have forgotten. It never came up. Did Irene tell you?"

"My music teacher told me that he taught you, he said you were really good." Jisung breathes out and looks at Mark. Soon, Jisung will grow taller than him.

"Even if I was, you don't have to be any better. I sucked at schoolwork, found it completely shit," Mark says, offering Jisung the last bite, "and it was the only thing I was good at. Don't let it pressure you. You don't have to be perfect at everything, we love you for who you are."

There's a bit of hypocrisy in those words but Mark will never tell Jisung and what he doesn't know will never hurt him.

"Can I see it someday? Your playing? It's been years." Jisung says.

"Sure. I have a performance at my graduation next month. You're coming, aren't you?"

"Of course!"

Dynamism is confusing. But it's the only way to achieve equilibrium.

It's not easy to figure out that Mark is trying as hard as he can with the sort of meekness that resides in his bones. Jisung is given less credit than he deserves. He does his best to understand, as usual, and concludes that growing older doesn't mean becoming perfect. And that imperfection shouldn't be punished.

Jisung is still 14 when things change. Mark is leaving behind 22. 

*

Jisung is tall but he's scrawny in a way only he can be. 

He shies away and on one unfortunate night after leaving tennis practice alone, Jisung finds himself cornered under a flickering streetlamp. 

He is not new to being bullied. People taunting him for wearing expensive clothes, fresh sneakers, for carrying more lunch money than they do. Being ostracized for being looked after, for not having a father, for having a face that doesn't resemble his mother's. But this. This has never happened before.

He shouts for help but a gloved hand covers his mouth. Jisung bites, vision hazy. He's being dragged to an alley off the main path and it's too late at night, this part of the city is always empty after dark. Something kicks him in the shin and he cries out for help again, trying to reach for his tennis racquet. His fingers scramble to find a leather jacket and he screams in horror, his throat hurting till he can't breathe.

Help. He needs help and this man is going to kidnap him. He will be sold. Jisung wants to puke and he does.

"Son of a bitch --" Jisung is thrown onto the ground. It smells like dying rodents. The last things he sees are bricks and a puddle of drying rainwater. 

*

It happens this way.

Irene is worried because her young son isn't home when he should be. He doesn't answer his phone. She panics. In her haste to contact all the people she knows that know Jisung, she calls Mark who has just left university premises. 

He takes the responsibility to go look for him.

The path to the tennis court is empty at this hour. Mark's footsteps ring loudly in his ears, the crunch of gravel particularly gritty after hours of playing the violin hanging on his shoulder, until everything is silent. Noise and acoustics. This place isn't empty.

He scans the grounds -- no one, not a single soul, just a forgotten net waving at him under a solitary white lamp -- then heads towards the buildings when he hears a whimper. It gives way to a whack. He is scared. 

Mark rushes to a winding alleyway and when his eyes fall on Jisung's abandoned racquet, he stops breathing.

He can't bring himself to look at the man dragging the boy's body -- dead or unconscious, he doesn't know -- without wanting to throw up. So he does the next best thing.

People have many vices. 

Some gamble with money, others have sex every hour of the day. There are those who dig their teeth into the lives of others, then there are those who think they are entitled to everything that the world can offer. Some of these people think it's okay to abduct children who look well off. Some others like Mark think it's okay to be blinded by rage and let all logic crumble.

One second -- there is a violin case on Mark's shoulder. The next -- it is in his hands. 

The kidnapper hears him. He takes out a knife and presses it against Jisung's thin neck. Mark sheds all his beliefs, crushes his chastity beneath heavy footfall. All he can think of is little Jisung -- powerless -- and he runs faster than he has ever before. 

The crack that echoes is deafening. Mark doesn't know what cracks, but he knows his body is moving. He pants heavily. He swings his arms with as much force as can and whacks the violin case into a face he doesn't see. He breaks a nose. He will never recognise this face because he will never see it. 

A leg pushes into Mark's solar plexus and he sways off balance. He screams as another kick lands against the back of his knee, but he falls on top of the man. 

Mark hits again. There is no response this time, just warm blood. He doesn't care. 

His arms burn with pain -- hours of practice bleeding into seconds of assault. He swings once again. This time, the man falls to the ground.

Mark Lee doesn't leave his work unfinished. 

He strikes again, and again, until his white sneakers have blood on them. 

When he can finally breathe again, and tunnel vision vanishes, he falls to the ground and cuts his palms open on the abandoned knife. The sting registers. Nothing beyond that. 

Jisung lays on the ground, with the thinnest trail of blood oozing to the surface.

His chest moves. He is alive.

Mark cries in relief. He carries Jisung into open space, on the main street and a passerby shrieks as he dials the police. When he notices his fingers leaving bloody prints on his phone screen, he feels nothing. He wipes off his tears, hunched over Jisung's unconscious body. Sirens blare in the distance fifteen minutes later.

Mark gets arrested as Irene hugs Jisung to her chest. His violin is broken. So is his victim's skull. 

*

This is how things end. 

Mark gets through trial citing self-defence. Jisung lies on the stand. Irene lies on the stand. Mark can't tell apart the truth from the new stories spun around him anymore. He has done things before, with Jaemin and with Jaehyun, which are covered up before his prosecution can even find them.

He loses his degree weeks before graduation. He loses his part-time job. He is a criminal. He gets away with a heavy fine and heavier community service.

They don't talk about this again. Mark Lee is ruined.

Na Jaemin -- silver hair, rimless glasses, and a mint green cardigan -- is the first person to extend a hand towards him.

This is where new beginnings don't happen. The best pages of Mark's life are torn out and pasted over spilt ink. Then new pages are made to fix those rips. The spine of his book will never be replaced because it's the only one he has, he must protect it, and it is sturdy enough to keep everything bound despite looking battered.

"You don't need a fresh start when things never ended," Jaemin says. 

On a wooden bench outside the court where people only look at him with condescending eyes, Mark begins to understand why the entire world keeps telling him that he and Jaemin are similar when they look nothing alike.

*


	12. (幕間) When we shine bright, I'm alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> regular content warnings apply.

~

When Jisung calls Chenle, he expects to see Mark in the background but what shows up is a lavish four-poster bed -- something completely unexpected.

"Weren't you going to the main house?" Jisung asks, squinting at the screen. He waits for Chenle to adjust on his pillows and takes the chance to go back to washing the dishes. Night duty is the worst, he thinks, when he has to help clean dishes after the tables have been wiped and the chef finishes preparations for the next day.

"I thought so too." Chenle yawns. "But they brought me here. You know what's weirder? Our mother was actually home."

Jisung takes a minute to pump more dishwashing liquid onto his sponge.

"The governess was home? Are you kidding me?" There are many things Jisung is privy to about the governess and her lifestyle, partly because he knows her two older sons and partly because her youngest son is attached to him by the hip for the most part. And this bit of news doesn't check out with what he has heard of her all his life.

"I know right. It feels odd. I feel like something bad is going to happen Ji." Chenle says, looking away from the camera.

"It'll be fine, what's the worst that can happen? Maybe she decided to relax a bit, she's getting old too."

"That woman?" Chenle screeches, then laughs sardonically, "Never. She will never admit she's old. And she will never relax. Haven't you met her, she's insane."

"But she's your mother." 

Jisung hates cleaning out plates with leftover food in them. The dustbins are right there, why can't people use them? He holds his breath as he cleans and tries his best not to pay attention to what he's touching. He just needs to get these clean. Then he can go home and rest, maybe call Mark and pester him a little, maybe watch something interesting.

" -- also Jaemin's mother, something went wrong when she was giving birth to us, I can tell you that for sure -- Jisung! Are you listening!"

"I am! I am! I'm just." He groans. "It's been a weird day."

"You tell me then. You said you have interesting news." 

Jisung decides to sit back while he can. The owner is out to pick up canisters of sesame oil and he's an easy-going guy -- has been since way before Jisung ever saw the man boss Jaehyun around -- so he doesn't expect to be criticised for taking longer to get the dishes done. Most days, Jisung doesn't have an issue with doing, well, anything. Today, he feels a little nauseous.

"Ji, you don't look fine." 

"I don't feel very well, but don't worry -- really, I'm okay. Do you still want to hear the interesting thing?" 

"It's why I called you, bitch."

Jisung laughs as he washes his hands, the sound of gushing water too loud but never louder than Chenle. He scrubs his hands clean and dries them before picking his phone from the counter he'd left it on.

"I think Mark hyung has a boyfriend." 

"What! Jisung that's important news, why didn't I hear of it!"

"It's a recent development. I see them together everywhere and hyung is so… weirdly clingy with him." Something ruffles inside him. The thought that both of them look too dependent on each other pops up in his head but he discards it. He's never seen a man more independent than Mark (that's a lie, he has, Taeil exists).

"Is he handsome? I just know he has to be handsome and very muscular, hyung likes his men like that --"

"Ew, you're disgusting." Jisung cannot stomach the mental image of Mark hanging off of men who likely visit the gym more than once a month. He just can't, it feels like he's treading into hellish territory. "But he looks like a soft teddy. Very fluffy hair. Also, he's a foreigner, from Korea too."

"Huh, fluffy hair foreigner," Chenle repeats. 

"Yeah. Hyung looks whipped already."

"Are you sure about that?" Chenle moves around and lights up a bedside lamp, casting a sharp, orange glow onto the planes of his face, "Hyung is careful about falling in love. He wouldn't fall for someone he doesn't know."

"You know, I thought the same. Do you think something is up with them?"

"Friends with benefits, maybe."

"Shut up, Chenle."

  
  


×

  
  


Few things require balls of steel to accomplish. Threatening your brother's secretary to spill his whereabouts is definitely one of those, especially when she's sitting in her chair with a back so straight her spine seems to be rod-shaped, and with a gaze that spits fire to boot. Jaemin holds himself back from injecting poison into her neck with much difficulty. Her youthful defiance stills him.

"Why can't you tell me, I'm family." He asks with a smile he knows looks worth a fucking million bucks. This lady is lucky she is new.

"I'm sorry but you can't prove that."

"I'm his brother. You should know all about, shouldn't you," he says, leaning against her desk. She throws him a dirty look and Jaemin rolls his eyes. His hoodie is perfectly clean, so what if it isn't appropriate attire to show up at the Mayor's office? He's not contaminating her desk with procrastinating germs. If anything, she could probably learn from him. 

"You don't look anything mister Chenle," she says. Her haughtiness will be the end of her career, Jaemin knows it.

"And what if I told you your records are wrong?"

"They can't be." So much trust in a system that could be run better if it were to be handled by Nuko.

"Just tell me one thing then." Jaemin drops his smile then and straightens up, folding his arms in front of his chest. "Did the governess come to see him recently?"

"I cannot answer tha --"

"Yes or no, that's all I want. I won't leave if you won't tell me and the security won't take me either. I mean, I'm standing here in front of you. They didn't turn me away. Is any person just randomly allowed to see the Mayor's staff? I don't think so."

"No," she answers, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

"Are you sure about that?"

"She hasn't." She tugs at her skirt again. "Now please leave. If I tell the security to take you, they will." Jaemin stares at her hand but this time she isn't playing with her skirt. He catches a glimpse of bright pink before she settles him with a cold expression again.

"Alright," he says and moves away, taking steps backwards, "alright."

It's not alright. She knows it and so does Jaemin.

  
  


~

  
  


The call with Chenle leaves Jisung thinking. 

Mark is a precious man with an occasional mean streak, and Jisung would do anything to keep him safe if he weren't aware that Mark is more than capable of staying safe one way or another. 

He chains his cycle to the stand and keys in the passcode to his dorm. It's bound to wake someone up but he isn't bothered. The back of his head aches dully and his temples are building up a slow throb. His neck hurts. So do his shoulders. His hands are chilled by the cool air and the aftermath of yet another drizzle. This day is an ordinary one -- with a generic routine he follows -- so it should be no surprise when Jisung toes off his shoes to find high heels dropped lazily where he positions his shoes. They are bright pink -- and if he shines light at them, they will glitter, -- which throws Jisung off because none of his dorm-mates' girlfriends wear shoes like these. This is odd. 

He doesn't have to consider the possibility of a hook-up because all of them are taken except for himself and Chenle. Unless someone is trying a new fashion. Great for them, he thinks, dumping his bag on the couch in the living room before heading to his bedroom. 

A loud moan cuts through the silence as he closes his door. It leaves Jisung blushing. He's the youngest here and the most inexperienced, but he knows what that was and there's no way he can go out now without fearing heart failure. 

He misses Chenle already. On a normal day, they would be bickering right about now about what show they should watch together or which assignments are due tomorrow. 

It hasn't even been an hour since they dropped the call but he feels lonely. Jisung feels his chest grow heavy with the need to have someone moving around him or sitting in his desk chair, or even just showering and allowing the water to run. He needs liveliness. There is none. His blankets are awkward and his pillows stare him in the face as they ask: _what are you doing, boy?_

His hand moves to his pocket for his phone -- he should call Mark -- but it isn't there. Panic seizes his throat but he quickly realizes it's in his bag. He needs to go back to the living room.

The silence continues to ring in his ears. It's violent in the way it beats at his eardrums, in the way his eyes need time to adjust to the darkness only to be assaulted by a sudden lack of feeling in his surroundings. The couch is ice cold. The floor refuses to give way to him as he tiptoes gently, it wants him to make noise, but he doesn't give in. A little distance away, the television sits -- eerily dead. Not even a single tiny light blinks back at him. As Jisung stands motionlessly, with his chest moving slowly to not disturb the order of this room, he swallows thickly.

Another stifled moan reaches him -- he's somewhat grateful for it -- followed immediately by a sharp scream. But he can't risk his integrity to become a fake voyeur only because being alone makes him afraid. He picks up his bag and leaves, closing the main door behind him when his laces aren't even tied. 

Only when he is ten minutes away from the dorm and walking round the bend of a heavily populated road does he breathe well. His lungs feel light again.

  
  


~

  
  


There are days where Jisung cries silently as soon as he wakes up in the morning. 

He hurts. He wants Mark's fingers carding through his hair and rubbing into his scalp. He wants Irene's soft voice in his ears, telling him he's late for class and that she made him breakfast. Jisung is a university student who is supposed to be self-sufficient but the inherent need to have what he lost never leaves his body. It seems into his cells, mixes into the fluids that build him and rests heavily on his tongue when he opens his mouth, ready to spill and show the world how scared he is.

But then there are days where he wants to feel the air nip at his skin as he walks through almost deserted streets. He presses his feet firmly to the ground, assuring himself of his existence, that he is a boy and not a ghost left here to starve for life. 

Some days can't be classified. They start with the promise of a better life -- one where he sees his friends laughing and his back doesn't hurt so much -- but they end dull. 

He doesn't want them to be dull. 

He wonders very often, what it would be like to live in the skins of one of the hyungs? 

Is it easier to smell the scent of coffee in the air in Jaemin's body? Does it ever get easier to smell blood and touch those who have passed away? Is it the same as digging into the bodies of living people with hot, throbbing arteries? 

Is it easier to listen to sounds and tap his feet to rhythms in Mark's body? Does it become easier to be brave and courageous, to have a soft exterior but an interior made of impenetrable material? 

Jisung wants to be a fraction of the men he has seen in his life. He never feels the absence of a father -- because how is he supposed to miss something he has never had -- but he finds pieces of who he wants to be in the people who have raised him. He wants to be gently sharp like his mother. He wants to be her so bad. He wants to become someone who can live in this world without feeling the noose at his neck tighten.

He wants and he can never have, his gut squeezes, because he is different from them. He is a boy and he may be good, but he finds that he is also inevitably weak.

  
  


÷

  
  


"You bastard," Renjun says as he rolls over on the bed to sit up. 

Truthfully, he had been waiting for Jaemin to get in touch with him, he just hadn't thought he would pretend to be his cousin when he could simply give him a call. At first, his empty notification tray made him sad. Now he's just angry. The landline might as well break in his grip. And he isn't angry at Jaemin, he's angry at himself. If this was the preferred way to contact him, something must be wrong with normal contact routes. 

One vacation and Renjun has become dumb. 

"Is that --" Jeno whispers, looking away from where he's folding their shirts.

"Yeah, unimaginable," Renjun answers, covering the mouth of the receiver with a hand. It does nothing to silence the man on the other side of the call -- nothing could ever silence Na Jaemin when he wants to speak, an unwilling listener is no stranger to him -- and Renjun speaks over the noise in his ears to ask Jeno to draw the curtains.

"-- you fool, I've been trying to reach you --" Jaemin's monotonous drawl is drowned by the whooshing of the curtains across the rod. 

The room falls dark, just like Renjun's voice. The bed dips next to him.

"So you finally remembered I exist."

"What." Jaemin deadpans.

"No replies, nothing, not even a single phone call, I thought I was your best fucking friend. I even almost cried, you're worth shit."

"What the fuck, no, wait, I've been calling you non-stop for weeks now, I even DMed you on your fucking social media from burner accounts --"

Renjun huffs out a confused laugh, "What the hell are you saying? Nothing reached me. I've been waiting for weeks."

Jaemin pauses, his breathing the only sound before the connection crackles and static takes over. Renjun muffles curses into the receiver as he turns to face Jeno, vaguely gesturing in the direction of his phone. Jeno catches on and pulls it out from under his pillows to hand it over. The line stabilises again, but it sounds eerily silent and when Jaemin speaks, his voice echoes slightly. 

"When did you call me?" He asks, something locking behind him -- the sound faint but clear enough to catch.

Renjun unlocks his phone and scrolls through the call log, "Today morning. Yesterday. Three days ago. I even tried from Jeno's phone, nothing, no reply, I even called Mark but nothing --"

"Wait, wait, how the hell is that even possible. I thought you were avoiding us, special honeymoon or whatever."

He scoffs and wishes so hard that he could shove Jaemin.

"I did, the first two weeks. Then I started missing home. Even Taei-- wait." Renjun startles. Things aren't making any sense. He has been calling Jaemin endlessly and Jaemin claims that he's been calling endlessly as well. This is a puzzle with exactly one missing piece -- right from the centre -- and Renjun catches onto the thread that is even Taeil and Mark being unable to contact him. Why hadn't he thought of it before? It's foolish yet odd. He takes in a deep breath and plays with the telephone cord, head dizzy with the information before he blurts. 

"Wait. Where are you? Where are you right now?" 

"Me? I'm at the --" Jaemin's breath catches in his throat before he falls silent. "Hell no. I should have fucking known it," he says. Jeno places a hand on Renjun's shoulder -- calming and soothing. 

"Does your location have to do with you being able to contact me?"

"I'm at the North Bureau. Mark told me the common net is down. So all common net applications and connections outside Neo aren't working."

Renjun scoots back on the bed. "My phone is locally produced. No wonder it has the common net tracker installed."

"Elections?" Jaemin asks, voice more breathy than solid.

"Could be the elections. And more. Why have you been trying to call me? I know you never call unless it's important. It could be related."

"I think there's something bad happening in the city," Jaemin admits.

"Worse than your lot?"

It makes both of them chuckle, their throats tight.

"I think so, and Taeil hyung too, that… You know what, get yourselves new phones for the rest of your vacations. As soon as you can. And don't contact me on my number. If this is really happening I need to check a few things first. Get in touch with Mark, but don't tell him anything. I don't want to worry him."

As usual, there are connections Jaemin has made which he can't be bothered to explain. It leaves Renjun annoyed. However, Jaemin has his ways, he just knows things and he has been in Neo for all these weeks that Renjun hasn't. He assumes it has to do with blocking connectivity with people who have left the city -- because the governments are funky like that and Neo's local body is no better even if Jeong Jaehyun sits in his fancy chair and gives morally good orders to the public -- and stones fall to the pit of his stomach for being sad for no reason all along.

"Okay, okay, noted. Also… I missed you." Renjun says, at first rushed, then gently. He turns to face his husband. He opens his mouth to speak but Jeno interrupts.

"We're going back to Neo." A note of finality makes its way to Jeno's voice. If Jaemin were here, he would kiss him if Renjun wouldn't behead him for it.

"That's the best thing to do," Jaemin says.

"It's settled then. We'll see you tomorrow."

"I'll be waiting." It's not the voice of Na Jaemin who is Renjun's best friend, it's the voice of Na Jaemin who believes that the iron in his blood comes from beneath the crackling grounds of Neo City. "Also, I think you deserve to know this, mister legal advisor, but Jaehyun is missing."

"You're telling me _now,_ you fucker, I will skin you alive --" The call drops.

  
  


~

  
  


Twenty minutes later, Jisung regrets not cycling. He had thought it'll be a short walk in the vicinity when he left, head clouded and hands shaky, and he's been proven wrong just by how far he has managed to speed walk. 

He stands at crossroads. 

He pulls his jacket closer to his body and shivers as he exhales heavily.

One step back and he knows he'll convince himself to go to the dorm, put on some music as he should have in the first place, and then sleep. One step forward, he will spend the night loitering. Going back isn't an option. His eye twitches. Maybe if he takes the right turn, he'll end up at Hotpot and the owner will let him in again. Maybe if he goes left, he would run into a friend from class on their way to the ice-cream parlour. 

Jisung hates moments of indecision, and this is one of those. There is a spike of tension in his chest that slithers it's way to his head and fits there snugly, right between his brain lobes, to whisper into his ears. He walks forward.

A car passes by, zooming at high speed and the sound of the tires burn themselves into his memories.

He smells the rubber, the asphalt, the scent of someone's heavy perfume as they run past him in nothing but denim overalls in this weather. He rubs his arms and tightens his grip on the straps of his bag. He's an adult now, he can stay outside at night if he keeps himself safe. He is allowed to do this and he has done it before but never alone, never like this, and he shivers again before he walks faster to warm himself up. There is sweat on his brow.

The streetlights bathe him in an orange glow as he walks past the streets that are lit in gold.

  
  


~

  
  


Jisung's phone lies on the pavement -- with a massive crack running along with the volume buttons -- halfway in a muddy puddle, the screen splattered with droplets of blood.

It vibrates but there is no sound. 

On the screen, Mark's face lights up. Once, twice, thrice. Nobody notices it in the dark of the alleyway. It lights up again, the water around it rippling with the strength of the vibrations, almost as if the person calling is wishing desperately for an answer.

Then, the phone shuts down.

*

  
  



	13. (十一)  as we tumble down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of dialogue in this one so don't read it at bedtime, you'll fall asleep. I cut down on most monologue and descriptions because they were unnecessary tbh. it's really the dialogue that drives this chapter despite its mostly filler duty.
> 
> also, thank you for waiting ( ◜‿◝ )♡ there will be more updates this month and the next to make up for the time I was gone.
> 
> usual content warnings apply. not edited at all, I haven't even read through this, I'll fix stuff later. enjoy!

昔

  
  


Donghyuck spent the better part of his school days baking and loitering about in places off-limits to students. What he remembers are pale blue skies with cotton-like clouds and laughter. 

He has no idea how music -- or teaching music, for that matter -- works. But he can make an educated guess and in his eyes, Mark is a weird teacher. He rounds students into groups of almost equal caliber (is what he said when Donghyuck asked over dinner one evening) and focuses on helping them polish their skills. 

Donghyuck mingles with the students when he isn't running around taking photographs for other freelance assignments Mark and Jungwoo manage to grab for him. His social media stopped refreshing a few days ago and reinstalling apps won't work either. With newfound boredom, Donghyuck works. Money makes the world spin and all that; he must work to earn. 

The little bumps in the number displayed on his mobile wallet make him smile.

Today, he sits next to scrawny Lyn with his chin digging into his palm. Lyn grins at him, prattling off about something interesting that happened in his class the other day. For someone who spent the better part of two days hiding under a bridge and fainting from dehydration shortly after, Lyn sounds cheerful. It's amazing to see how fast he has bounced back. An extraordinary youth amongst the many that stand scattered around the theatre.

"-- so we didn't go through with voting, after all." Lyn says, eyes wide. 

"How did you pick then?"

The story in question is of the class representative elections. With the way he narrates it, it sounds more and more like municipal politics. 

"The headmistress picked one. No one can go against her, and even her decision was probably made based on what the teachers told her." His mouth twists into a bitter line. "I think it's unfair. Only the teacher's pets get advantage."

"As if you aren't a teacher's pet," Donghyuck says and smirks. 

The tips of Lyn's ears turn pink.

"I'm not!" He argues.

"I disagree, boy. You suck up to Mark so much I would be worried if I didn't talk to you." 

"So you _are_ Mr. Lee’s boyfriend!"

"Unrelated. But why do you defend him? He could be wrong for all you know." Donghyuck asks, hoping to keep his tone conversational. He fails. The curiosity bleeds through.

Donghyuck hears many comments in passing. He usually resigns himself to a corner and choses to observe or throw glares whenever a kid gets overly mouthy, and it’s best if he doesn’t object beyond that. He is an outsider (it’s what he should write on his passport now). There is nothing to gain if he were to rebuke children for having too much pride. He doesn’t know if they actually are wrong, to boot. 

“Sometimes,” Lyn starts, staring at Mark’s broad back in the distance where he is talking to a junior, “he is wrong. He makes mistakes.”

_He’s a showoff; He can’t handle the tempo; It’s like he’s trying to spoon feed us when he takes the lead, that’s no good, y’know?; We can follow him if we have a good ear, but he won’t play at the competition with us anyway, so what’s the point?; I really don’t care._

Today too, Mark is weird. 

He flails around in an oversized blue cardigan with his glasses about to fall off the bridge of his nose. If ever, Donghyuck gets a chance to be near him and a comb at the same time, he would brush through his hair. Mark isn’t even picking up the violin to teach. He only observed and accompanied with a piano -- which was perfect. Now this, Donghyuck can tell because he has heard his sister play the flute to the arrangement they were practicing. 

"Everyone has different strengths," he had said, "which means they need different kinds of encouragement, and different kinds of feedback." 

Now _that_ is something Donghyuck does understand. And he understands it very well. It does nothing to stave off his intrigue though.

“The strings competition is at the end of the academic year, pushing too hard right now is going to be no use, it will burn them out before all of them can reach roughly the same playing level.” Mark had chugged down another glass of his favourite, accursed cranberry cocktail then. He looks so pretty with a ruddy face.

Anyhow, he's a good teacher. So what if his playing is a little odd?

He voices as much to Lyn in gentler words, who chokes out a laugh. 

Donghyuck wonders what if he had someone like Mark to look up to when he was younger. It’s a bad choice, obviously, given Mark is a normal person with a touch too much of shadiness obscuring parts of his life. Would Donghyuck be more receptive to the idiosyncrasies of various people? Would he lose less people in his life?

High school students and their unachievable energy levels. Donghyuck wants to travel back in time and whack himself on the head for wasting so many years.

“I think he’s odd too, but everyone does. They call him the ‘odd part-time hire’ in the staff room at school. He never goes to school unless the headmistress calls him. I suspect it’s because the teachers he is supposed to sit with used to teach him when he was younger,” Lyn says.

“Must be a jarring experience,” Donghyuck mumbles. Mark scratches the back of his head and he wishes he could detach Mark’s head from his body and keep it in his lap. He blinks -- such violent thoughts -- then shakes his head.

“He can’t play with other people.” Lyn declares confidently, albeit in a small voice, only meant for Donghyuck.

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ve been a fan of his for years. I noticed before vacations, when I finally got to learn from him. This inability to play with others is new.” Lyn thinks this -- the inability to keep up with anyone else as he plays -- is the reason why Mark doesn't play in the local orchestra anymore. He can't help but go off on a tangent -- especially when he has the violin in his hands. Something to do with the public? Donghyuck thinks that if it’s about having so many pairs of eyes trained on him, he might be able to relate.

"You really do have a crush on Mark." Donghyuck mocks him with a teasing smile.

"I idolise him, is all!" 

Lyn is such a bright spirited yet shy one. He reaches out to pinch his cheek and Lyn groans. Maybe Donghyuck should start a tally of how many cheeks he has pulled ever since he came to Neo. This is a rather strange habit he has picked up. Whomever did he pick it up from? Jungwoo?

"How long have you been keeping up with his playing?"

"Ever since I was 5 I think. It's been a decade. At my age, saying the word decade means a lot. It's more than half my life." 

"Say, do you know why he plays like that then? It's new, you said."

"Who knows. I just know I have more experience with music than any other student in this room. But even I took so long to catch on, because I played the piano before this. You see, if Mr. Lee doesn't play at...whatever pace he catches automatically, his hands tremble. Only when he's holding the violin, though." 

  
  


昔

  
  


Arriving early means leaving the hotel room half an hour ahead of time. Donghyuck considers himself lucky that Jungwoo covers his cab fare out of the sheer goodness of his heart. Once he can afford it, Donghyuck will take him to a fine dining restaurant.

The torrents of rain that have been plaguing the city ever since Donghyuck came here (almost a month ago, it feels unnatural) have recently turned to regular deluges. He taps his fingers against the handle of his umbrella. Cluck-cluck-cluck. He tightens his hold at every sharp bend of the road and every sudden halt that comes with an unexpected red light. Outside the bleary window, colourful lights reflect off the windows of other cars waiting with them. 

The stuffiness of the cab begins to slowly detach the bottom of his stomach from its perch in his body.

He bites his lip, plugs in one earphone, hugs his umbrella close, and starts following a square breathing gif.

It doesn't take long to reach the Neo Symphonic Theatre ("The traffic was surprisingly less," his taxi driver explains) and Donghyuck is dashing up the carpeted, marble staircase -- past ivory pillars and newly installed strobe lights -- to the hall he has gotten used to. 

His chest rises and falls with lack of breath as he reaches close.

Music fills his ears. It grows louder with every passing second. This isn't a familiar tune, not with the sharp notes and hurried cadence. Donghyuck still isn't sure if the words he uses to describe music in his head -- often simple things -- are right or not, but it doesn't matter to him when he's being whisked away by the sound.

Right now, though, the sound isn't taking him to places he only dreams of.

It grounds him -- ankle to metatarsal to toe to freshly sprouting root -- and keeps his heart running away from what could easily turn to noise with the crack of a fingernail. A black, polished, and sparkly fingernail. 

Donghyuck's chest fills with his own sound. In. Out. In. Out. His ears, however, are hopefully the only audience to a performance that is thudding along broken railroads.

Mark's erect posture still makes Donghyuck's spine tingle. His hands move fast. It's been about five minutes since Donghyuck first heard the notes to this piece, but Mark has been playing for longer. The shine on his forehead speaks of either a long time spent on the stool or of severe distress. Donghyuck thinks it's both.

He walks down the staircase, with his umbrella trailing water behind him. 

Mark doesn't grow any larger than his existence already is as Donghyuck reaches the stage. He only comes into sharp focus. His jaw. His cheekbones. His glasses sitting on the tip of his oily nose, about to fall down. These are the things Donghyuck always notices about him, whether day or night, whether he's walking two metres away or whether Mark is kissing him back with the ferocity of a man who has been touch-starved for years. 

He stops playing. The hall falls silent before the distant patter of rain fills the space between them once again. 

It's always like this.

Mark, Donghyuck, the rain. And Mark's trembling hands. 

He lowers the violin and lifts his chin, eyes trained at Donghyuck's figure. He tilts his head to the side, breathless similar to Donghyuck, but for a different reason. 

Donghyuck doesn't blink as he stares up at Mark. The stage isn't high enough that he can't climb it. He chooses not to. He chooses to stand on the damp carpet to crane his neck upwards and look at this person who is painted in an extra layer of human-coloured pigment every waking hour.

"Why do you shake when you play the violin?"

Mark huffs a surprised laugh. He bends down to the open violin case next to the foot of his stool and places the violin down gently. It might not be the best in the world, but it is expensive.

"What do you mean?" Mark says, with the line of his tired shoulders and dark hair concealing his face from Donghyuck. 

"Your students ignore it because you teach well. Half of them could be plain stupid, but what's up, Mark. Why do you play like you want to run away?" 

Donghyuck doesn't often think before speaking. The glint in Mark's eyes tells him that a smarter man wouldn't say what he did. Donghyuck stiffens. Has he said something wrong again? Will he drive Mark away like he has driven away anyone that bothered to show care for him? Would it have been better not to ask? 

"Because I do." Mark answers, voice deep and gentle, then licks his bottom lip, "I do want to run away. Doesn't this hall suffocate you? All we do is sit here, wielding our instruments as if we will save the world when we play them."

"Is that why you people play? You think your instruments will save someone."

Mark smiles darkly. 

"Well, one can do that without playing their instrument too. Just as long as they have it on hand."

  
  


昔

  
  


Chief Son collapses onto the sofa in the waiting hall with a cough. She leans her head back against the coarse knit fabric of the sofa and groans. Her face twists into one of discomfort before it relaxes again and she rubs her abdomen with a gloved hand. Her working hours must have begun to take a toll on her body. 

Yukhei relaxes in his chair and folds his arms across his chest, surveying the break room.

Every chair and sofa is occupied by officials -- most of them from the previous meeting and some of them new, which still totals to less than 10 people -- who look ragged and worn. The coffee machine beeps thrice and then someone turns it off to pour it into small, disposable cups. These past weeks have been tough for everyone. Crime in Neo moves like waves at sea, and this time, they've all been caught in high tide.

Yangyang passes a steaming cup of espresso to Yukhei, who thanks him with a curt nod. 

With the fluorescent lights on the ceiling reflecting in his coffee, Yukhei catches a glimpse of his own face.

He looks pathetic, honestly. He feels pathetic. He hasn't showered yet, he hasn't changed his shirt since last night, he hasn't even bothered to comb his hair with more than shaky fingers. If he were sitting in a café further near the rich people's living area, he would be sneered at and escorted to a bus going Downtown by the security. 

As soon as this meeting is over, he's going to sleep.

The door clicks shut as their Squad Leader enters the room. The whispered murmuring vanishes then and leaves an uncomfortable silence piercing through Yukhei's ears.

"Do we have new information?" Chief Son asks, pressing her thermocol cup to her cheeks. She looks unbelievably young like this, with her cheek squished and eyes closed as she slumps, even with her silver hair styled into a threatening bob. Yukhei knows her on a personal level, and yet, the number of times he has seen her slouch with exhaustion can be counted on one hand.

Iron-maiden Wendy Son. 

That is what they called her back when the North Neo bureau was still a central government establishment. A fiercely righteous private investigator who wouldn't be wary of bending around the laws to protect her people. Once the inquisition squad was recruited, she was chosen to lead them by unanimous vote. 

The lady with sharp features from last time -- who Yukhei since learned was the combat division's ace, First Class Nguyen -- raises a hand. Son nods.

"One more death occurred in the same fashion."

The news stuns Yukhei.

"The reports have been faxed and mailed." She continues and Yongqin smiles at her to assure her that he did, in fact, receive them.

"Can you detail it for us, please?" He asks, voice unnervingly level.

"Yes." Nguyen keeps her coffee aside and looks at Wendy, who looks back at her with rapt attention. "The body was found very close to the location they found the first body, just by the hedges where the flyover pillars stand near the Acheron." 

"How was this not redirected to us?" 

"Didn't match our criteria. The victim is a certain Raynold Walter, male, aged 37. Quite a popular man, though he was known by his social media handle, claimed he catered to the destitutes. He was hosting a charity dinner for the LGBT the night of his death -- 4th August."

"It's the 25th today. You mean he's been dead for more than 20 days? When did you get this info?" Yukhei has seen the gruff man on the floor more often after the last meeting. He still doesn't know his name, and he squints his eyes to read his badge when Yangyang bends to his eye level and whispers, 

"That's First Class Reyes, and that --" Yukhei looks at the rather demure and soft-featured man with greying hair standing next to Misaki, "-- is his partner, First Class Hanasaku."

Hanasaku pats Reyes's shoulder and whispers something to him. His gaze finds Yukhei then, appraising, and Yangyang pulls away to sit back in his chair immediately. Reyes's gaze softens then and Hanasaku smiles. Yukhei feels strangely nostalgic looking at Hanasaku's face. He must have seen him at the precinct but he believes he has seen him somewhere else. When he was younger, perhaps.

Someone's phone rings -- a loud, bell-like ringing -- and gets cut off abruptly.

Nguyen clears her throat and straightens her back. 

"We received news a week ago. But --" She raises a finger, "we have done the necessary since. His wife denied an autopsy, so we couldn't do much, but he had a bruised face and a few broken fingers. They checked with the clothes he was wearing in pictures and when he was brought in. Ironically, he was known for being quite the homophobe despite taking several men home with him.

"There's one massive discrepancy in there. The body was found in time but it was quickly ruled as a suicide. Even though the cause of death was asphyxiation."

"What do you mean?" Another lady interrupts.

"The initial investigation was rushed. He is an infamous celebrity you see. More people were happy to hear of his death than sad. His wife testified that he had suicidal tendencies as well. There's no further explanation for why this happened. It was after his cremation ceremony that we were handed the examiner's detailed reports. It was the inference of that report which notified us that Walter fits our criteria."

That's clearly shady. There's words swimming deep in Yukhei's chest but he can't grab them. 

"Did you talk to the examiner after that?" The other lady asks.

"Yes. In quite detail." Nguyen's strict façade falls away for a moment, "He was a quirky boy. I believe Senior Wong recently worked with him? Pinkish hair?"

Ah, that odd examiner Ten brought from Downtown. Kim Minseok, was it?

"I did. Definitely young, but the report he wrote for me was far more detailed and informative than standard," Yukhei says. The image of that doctor is still vivid. A relaxed walk but tense shoulders; a voice Yukhei has heard before. Eh?

This is the same gust of nostalgia that Hanasaku brings.

Yukhei bites the inside of his cheek, then looks at First Class Hanasaku again. An investigator's gut feeling is rarely wrong. He believes it.

At the back of his head, a scent stirs -- a heavy, heady scent of flowers and dirt. The surreal moment Yukhei is experiencing sits at the tip of his tongue -- a hot pavement, a soft hand, a vacation day years ago, Jungwoo telling him something as they look at another couple in the distance -- but Ten's voice breaks it. 

"I know him. He is...a private hire. Graduated a year ago, older than he looks and does a great job."

Once the Squad Leader speaks, no one questions it openly. It's an unspoken rule that even the elders follow, out of sheer respect for the way the current higher ups have squeezed the bureau through fiendish situations. Someone Ten trusts is someone his entire squad trusts implicitly, even if it is pretend. All suspicions are kept behind sealed lips unless they need to be acted upon.

"Continue, Nguyen. You still have something important to say, don't you?" Son says, propping herself on her palms to lean forward.

"The police stations in charge allowed us into the morgue. We checked up on the bodies and we got permission to carry out an autopsy on one of them. The other two were claimed by families." 

"And did we learn anything?" 

"As Senior Wong and Liu reported previously, it's asphyxiation."

"Asphyxiation from what?" Yangyang's shoulder bumps into Yukhei's when he asks.

"...This brings me back to where I began. This is the most，should I say, interesting, and concerning aspect of this case. Inert gas asphyxiation."

"Inert gas what?" Reyes shouts, as if he were affronted personally.

"Yes, you heard me right."

"You mean...like, nitrogen or helium poisoning?"

Ten decides to answer that, "You've got it. It happens in the absence of oxygen. There have been documented cases of inert gas asphyxiation due to argon and methane as well. But it's not easy to achieve. Getting these gases and arranging for their transport...it's going to be a costly process anyhow."

"Isn't this an old euthanasia method?" Another Senior who had been sitting silent so far notes, blowing on his cup which must already be cold.

That makes Yukhei's blood run cold the way it does whenever he finds what killed a victim. People's lives are precious, at least it's what he firmly believes, and every life lost inopportunely is a shame on the name of the human race. There is much to be desired -- Yukhei understands that justice and peace will always remain relative no matter how hard he fights -- but there is no escape from the agitation of failure curdling at the back of his throat.

"We'll have to look into that further. So far, this is all we can speculate. The murderer has connections or has made specific medical equipment purchases in the last few months." Nguyen continues to report, and Yukhei has to shake his head just to continue paying attention. How long had her original report been?

"What if the killer stole the apparatus?"

Neo must be cursed. What kind of city do they live in, honestly, where they've got a serial killer who steals inert gases and other killers who dig up bodies just to bury them again? They might as well be the same person or group. Yukhei scowls internally but keeps his mouth shut to avoid saying anything unwarranted.

What if...what if he is right. What if they really are the same person? 

It's an odd suspicion. 

Even Yangyang would pay heed to him if he voiced it. But, what are the odds that two strange incidents would be occurring at the same time without any relation whatsoever?

Yukhei makes a mental note to mention this to Ten later.

"We can have a team check but it will take a while. Visiting every clinic and hospital in the city, and if it comes to that, then outside the city."

"We don't have jurisdiction beyond Neo with the Mayor's word."

"Don't worry about that." Son assures them, "I will put in a request."

"This is just crazy. So fucking crazy." Reyes says as he gets up from his chair and heads to switch on the coffee machine again. It jumps to life and starts beeping within the minute.

"Any other signs of struggle?" The man sitting farthest from them asks. He has barely spoken this entire time, but the knowing tightness in his expression is one of those who know what's going on.

"Just Walter."

"How is it that Walter has fucking broken fingers but the others don't even have a scratch?" Reyes says as he fishes out a new cup from a long packet.

"Maybe he was the only one who resisted? Or maybe he got into a fight before that. Nguyen did say they matched him by the clothes he wore to his dinner, so did his murder not go according to plan? I'm betting he was abducted." Hanasaku says, looking at Nguyen who chimes in an agreement.

"In all probability, they weren't killed where we found their bodies. No, I think it's an established fact now. Such a murder can't happen in the open," Yangyang concludes.

"You're right, Senior Liu. These bodies were left in the open after their death." Ten walks over to pat Chief Son on the shoulder, who then pushes off the sofa and runs a hand through her tangled hair. 

"Have you checked their medical records?"

"We've requested the police station for access."

"Good." Son glances at her wristwatch. "It's just a thought, but what if all of them agreed to undergo some procedure?"

"You think a doctor's involved?" Hanasaku asks.

"Most likely."

Yukhei agrees as well. He keeps staring at Hanasaku, at the softness of his mouth and as if the floodgates at a dam cracked open, the memory comes back to him.

*

A summer weekend afternoon at the park, spent with Jungwoo. It's one of many weekends Yukhei has filed away as memories he should never dig up, even if at the brink of death, and yet, this certain memory seems to be screaming at him to listen.

'You see there,' Jungwoo had said, pointing at a couple sitting in the shade, 'is Jaemin with his lover. I'm surprised they go out in public. That's rare.'

'Why?' Yukhei wasn't interested in why Jaemin didn't go on dates with his lover, he was only interested in the warmth of Jungwoo's palm on his palm.

'Because he's Na Jaemin, dummy. His brother is the mayor candidate. And his lover is a policeman's son. Very juicy if anyone wants to twist it into a scandal. Besides, that boy looks exactly like his step-dad. Makes for all sorts of gossip.'

A policeman's step-son who resembled his father to a terrifying degree. 

Hanasaku's step-son. 

Wasn't Na Jaemin studying to be a doctor when he was assumed dead?

Yukhei gulps thickly. 

*

Na Jaemin, the person he's been tasked to find, is closer than he thinks.

  
  


今

  
  


Donghyuck grumbles, the taste of mint toothpaste still fresh at the back of his tongue, as he follows Mark down the corridor, with one hand sliding along the wooden handrail and the other holding onto Mark's sleeve.

The staircase landing splits into two: about a three metre stretch of corridor that leads to a wooden staircase with dark, heavy carpeting that only heads to the middle of the ground floor, and behind a doorless entrance -- a closer, narrow ramp at the corner of the floorplan. Donghyuck wonders momentarily why they have it when he recalls how this was supposed to be a dorm building. Good accessibility and handy for when people are moving heavy things, he imagines. 

Donghyuck catches a glimpse of the ramp and finds steps continue upwards instead of the ramp. In fact, they seem to be the only way up. It's odd. They pass the entrance and take the central staircase; and he decides not to question it.

"Why do I have to eat breakfast with you and your...Whatever," Donghyuck complains.

"It will be impossible to hide your presence. Plus, he can help you."

"With what?"

"He has contacts. If you ever want to leave Neo without detection, I'd trust him to arrange something for you."

Donghyuck halts mid-step.

"Mark --" he starts, but Mark keeps trailing down, step by step, and Donghyuck has to tug hard on the sleeve he's holding.

"Mark," He rebukes, "we talked about this."

"And? I'd rather you understand the gravity of the situation."

"I'm staying." Donghyuck reaffirms, and he will do it as many times as he needs to. "Look, we're going to keep running in circles. I'll go eat breakfast with this Taeil-hyung and you get rid of your sullen face."

"I'm sorry I can't just throw my face away."

Mark reaches back to shake Donghyuck's hand off. Donghyuck pulls it back, afraid he is overstepping boundaries, when Mark intertwines their fingers loosely, as if to ask for permission. Donghyuck tightens his grasp. It burns. His skin sparks and his cheeks threaten to flame.

"That was stupid."

"I know." Mark smiles, his cheeks hollowing with the rise of his cheekbones. Such a cute face. It makes Donghyuck's heart warm.

Heart. Donghyuck chides himself for being so dense.

He likes Mark.

It's more than a fleeting attraction.

It's hardly been a month of knowing him but unlike with any past crushes or lovers, Donghyuck has no jitters of anxiousness when he admits this to himself. The affection seeps into him and fills him slowly, to the brim, with how much he likes Mark and how much he wishes they could kiss every morning even after Jungwoo is happily married.

For every stair they descend, Donghyuck comes up with a new reason why he's started falling for a stranger so easily. In retrospect, Mark isn't a stranger in the truest sense of the word -- not anymore, at least -- but he's mysterious and he's unbelievably warm. Standing next to him feels like Donghyuck had just waded out of a mineral hot spring.

In the dark last night, he didn't get a good look at the place.

It's a quaint rectangular room with pillars running a metre away from the walls to hold up the corridors overhead. It's still a fascinating sight because Donghyuck has never been to a _home_ like this. There's an old-time feel to the wood and simple, solid-colour furniture. Spacious yet cozy.

There's many doors along the walls and too many cabinets along the wall that's adjacent to the main doorway. 

"That's where he's waiting," Mark points to a large, open door to the left. It looks like another small passageway. 

"How did you get used to living here," Donghyuck asks. There's too many doors -- all of which look the same -- and too many doors behind those doors. This building doesn't make any sense.

Mark shrugs with a small smile.

To the left, there is a regular-sized circular dining table with many chairs. A few succulents are dying in the middle of it.

Far to the right is what looks like a real living room. A bright blue sofa that has dulled with the years, another sofa in beige, a couple of armchairs and massive floor cushions around a low coffee table. There are books stacked on it of intimidating thickness. There's a stone fireplace, complete with tons of photo frames on the mantle and extending beyond that to engulf the entire wall in a series of pictures that range from massive to portraits the size of polaroids. 

The atmosphere explains why the house is sequestered from the crowds in the city and why Mark claims to stay immured within his room on holidays. It's the kind of house Donghyuck would have loved to stay in with his friends and family. The filtering sunlight and clean scent assure him so.

Donghyuck squirms his fingers out of Mark's hold as he moves to inspect the pictures hanging closest to him.

"Is this your family?" 

"It's what I call them."

A pang of loneliness strikes Donghyuck as he counts the number of unique faces. Tall people, short people, a recurring wheelchair -- ah, the ramp -- silver hair, black hair, lots of Mark in oversized hoodies and sweaters, pink hair -- Donghyuck sighs inwardly -- and -- 

And Lee Jeno.

He blinks. Once, twice, but the picture doesn't change.

The face looking back at him remains the same angular one he used to cup in his hands on nights both of them were downtrodden. It's the same moon-like smile he has been craving to see for the past 2 years. 

Donghyuck takes a shuddering breath.

"And...Do you know him, Mark?"

"Who? That's Jeno --" Donghyuck bites his cheek, "-- he got married to one of my close friends a year ago. They're on their...second honeymoon, right now. Did you know him?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, we used to be friends."

"What are the chances?" Mark hums, leaning over Donghyuck's shoulder.

Ever since Donghyuck mailed Jeno's mother and learned that Jeno never went to live with her, he wished in some corner of his heart, that he would run into his ex(?) best friend if he came to Neo, but the probability was as good as drawing a lottery and he had rid himself of those thoughts. He had no idea this would happen.

And as if that wasn't enough to send Donghyuck's brain on an intergalactic journey, he sees another face that he's been fretting about.

Jeong Jaehyun. His handsome face and swept back hair. In the same frame as Lee Jeno and Mark, and probably, Na Jaemin who will shoot Donghyuck to death very soon.

Impossible. 

  
  


今

  
  


Heavy sunlight floods the room through massive windows on one side -- it's the maximum sun Donghyuck has seen in weeks -- and he smells the freshness of fruit in the air before he sees platters of cut fruit. The dining table is long. Too long. Donghyuck counts the chairs and by the time he has counted 10, Mark nudges him. He yelps.

"The fuck --"

"Mark! You're here. I'm glad you joined me. I have a guest arriving. And I see you've brought your guest as well."

The man who greets them has flaming red hair and a very generous smile, just like in the photographs outside -- the ones with Jeno in them, a fact Donghyuck still hasn't chewed over enough -- and his fancy wheelchair is stationed behind him. He is dressed in a large yellow sweatshirt and it makes him look friendly enough to ask for a hug. But for all he knows, he could be a sword master with a rapier hidden out of sight. Donghyuck is certain that he is going to either befriend Taeil or run away and never see him again.

"Care to introduce us?" The man teases Mark, who is visibly lost in thoughts again, definitely coming up with a plausible explanation to Donghyuck's presence.

"Ah, this is Moon Taeil, my hyung," Mark points to him with an open palm, "he is a genius chemist. Runs one of the major laboratories up North, you barely see him at home." 

"It's nice to meet you," Donghyuck says and inclines his head in a bow, because it's what feels like the right thing to do.

"Nice to meet you too."

"This is Lee Donghyuck, a photographer. He's Jungwoo's friend," Mark licks his lower lip, "and he will be photographing the wedding."

"Oh? That's wonderful to hear. Please take care of our Jungwoo, and Mark, they can be a handful sometimes, but they're good boys, I promise you."

"Hyung..." Mark whines as he draws out a chair diagonal to Taeil. _Shouldn't they sit face to face?,_ Donghyuck wonders, pulling out a chair next to Mark. When he plops down, Mark looks at him with surprise.

"It's been ages since anyone other than Jungwoo sat next to me."

That's when it clicks. There's a seating order. 

There's a fucking _seating order_ on this extra long table and the closer Donghyuck looks the more his lungs threaten to collapse because the cutlery in front of Taeil is not the same as the cutlery in front of Mark. Needless to say, the cutlery in front of every chair is different, arranged neatly and cleaned to a spotless shine, even if the owner won't show up. Donghyuck spots an array of forks reducing in size as the distance from a porcelain plate. A few chairs away, he notices a set of patterned chopsticks gently lying on a holder next to a couple of bowls. Holy hell. His mother would burst a vein if all the plates on a table didn't match. 

Donghyuck's head swirls with worry when he realises he'll have to use Jungwoo's cutlery. Yikes. Will he get pissed? He doesn't seem the type to.

The only word that fits the bill is that the people in this house have assembled into an 'organisation'. There's no other explanation. 

Taeil stands up then with a low grunt -- which frightens Donghyuck. What if he falls over? Is he okay? But if he can stand, why does he have a wheelchair -- Donghyuck smacks himself mentally for that. He should stop jumping to conclusions without information. He has done enough of that to last a lifetime. The conundrum must show on his face because Taeil laughs it off as he leans over the table to distribute paper napkins between the three of them. Mark mumbles a thank you hyung and turns away to sneeze.

"Bless you," Taeil looks at Donghyuck then, "Don't worry. I can stand, and even walk a bit -- it's just ill advised is all."

Relief washes over Donghyuck but then he looks at his feet with shame. His stomach clenches unpleasantly, disturbed by the fact that his first trail of thoughts would be so queasy. He should know better than others, having suffered through crippling anxiety most of his life. It also makes him curious, as to why Taeil needs such a high-end looking wheelchair. What ailment or history left him this way? It must be rude to ask.

"I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't mean to..."

Taeil picks up a fruit platter and moves it closer to Donghyuck.

"I know. It happens often, people see a wheelchair and think I'm the token disabled figure they post on bathroom doors. But it's also easy to misunderstand. Now you know, that's fine." Taeil smiles at Donghyuck like a god of comfort would. Donghyuck smiles back earnestly. 

"Can I ask...what happened?"

"It's congenital. Some unexplained necrosis at the time of birth. I survived somehow, but my legs are not the best."

Donghyuck doesn't know what to answer with. _I'm sorry? I hope it gets better? I'm glad you're alive?_ He cringes. He's known his fair share of disabled people but he doesn't know what to say here and wishes they were texting so he could just send him a heart emoticon instead. Why must words be so difficult? Mark's hand finds its way to Donghyuck's thigh then, and he taps. 

"Taeil-hyung is our miracle boy," Mark says. 

"You exaggerate," Taeil counters and sits down, pulling a tea kettle closer to himself. "Can you grab our breakfast from the kitchen? Aqua left early today."

Mark gets up with an admission that he was headed to the dustbin anyway, and squeezes Donghyuck's shoulder lightly before leaving. Donghyuck doesn't need a map, because the layout of this place is easy to understand, but he would be very grateful if someone gave him one anyway.

"How long have you known each other?" Taeil asks, tilting his head.

"About a month." Donghyuck answers. _You can't lie to him, he's a human lie detector,_ Mark's voice rings in his head.

Taeil looks sideways to where Mark disappeared.

"I don't want to sound rude, but isn't that too short?" Taeil looks Donghyuck in the eye, and Donghyuck swallows thickly.

"For what exactly..."

"Aren't you Mark's boyfriend?"

Donghyuck splutters, flapping his mouth open and closed, failing to form coherent words. 

"No, no, I'm not." He says, firmly.

"Really? He's been meeting you a lot these days and he's been coming back home really happy...well. If you aren't his boyfriend, then it surely doesn't concern you either way. But I'm glad he's made a great friend."

Uneasiness stirs in Donghyuck's abdomen. 'Doesn't concern him'? It doesn't, but hearing it spoken casually ruffles his feathers.

"Yes, he's a good friend." _We kiss occasionally and have little physical boundaries,_ is what Donghyuck wants to tack on at the end but he doesn't dare to because Taeil is appraising him with piercing eyes the way a detective would look at a fugitive. 

"How old are you?" Taeil asks, 

"26."

"Are you sure about this?" About what?

"Excuse me?" 

Taeil pours himself a hot cup of tea. He offers to pour some for Donghyuck, who shakes his head and declines politely.

Donghyuck doesn't want to be interrogated, he just wants to fall into Mark's soft bed and have a steamy make out session since Mark has decided to become a very good way to distract Donghyuck lately (and he's effortlessly cute yet hot), but here he is, sitting like he has a rod shoved up his ass at the breakfast table with Mark's older brother figure. Life is strange. Perhaps, in some other universe, the roles would be reversed. Wild.

Mark shows up with a long tray of fresh breads and a small box of fruit loops. 

"We have boiled eggs and lots of vegetables inside," he says. "Didn't you have a guest too, hyung? Where are they?"

"He's on his way. Before that, though, why is a wedding photographer here a month before we even begin preparing for said wedding?"

Donghyuck stills. It's an answer he is looking for as well.

"Can we talk about that later?" Mark groans, feigning light-heartedness.

"Are you covering for something?"

Donghyuck's eyes widen, "No!"

"Even if you are, you're safe here. I won't snitch, but you better come up with a very good cover story for why you're staying _here."_

"We're working on that." Mark says, slipping back into his chair with the excuse that he'll bring the rest when Taeil's guest arrives. 

"Good, good. Donghyuck is very cute, if you want to date him, you must do your best." Taeil says then winks discreetly.

Donghyuck is torn between blushing and bashing a chair on Mark's head.

"That's so random!" Mark cries in protest. His hand returns to scratch random patterns onto Donghyuck's thigh.

"Is it now...Isn't it the best cover story to be star-crossed lovers? If you're boyfriends, most people won't bother to ask why." Taeil says, then blows at his tea.

It's a new idea. 

Donghyuck wouldn't be opposed to being called Mark's boyfriend. It would sound sweeter in Mark's own voice. He trusts him -- the warmth flutters in his chest again -- but he thinks of Jeno's camera ink face plastered behind sheets of thin glass in the hall outside. Trust has only gotten Donghyuck so far. It's too fast. They're going at breakneck speed -- it scares him how much there could be to lose if all of this was a front. They're always kind, jovial, and sexy at the beginning. Donghyuck might as well be on the track to wanting to husband Mark up, but his critical thinking skills haven't been lost on a charming face. 

(The last time he had seen Jeno, he had tear tracks on his face. Donghyuck had cried himself to sleep because what a horrible friend he had been.)

He isn't ready for this. Neither of them are. Even if it is fake.

"I don't want to date him like that," Donghyuck says in a small voice.

"It's a good idea," Mark agrees reluctantly, having caught onto Donghyuck's thoughts, "but he's not in for it, and that's that."

_Wait, does that imply Make would be okay with it?_

For which he is grateful. He would never want to lose a chance at solidifying the vague shape of his growing relationship with Mark. At least, he can confirm that there is something there Mark would like. Donghyuck just doesn't want to ruin potential romance by falling into fake dating headfirst. _Been there, done that,_ he thinks, and it's always been the opposite of what movies make it out to be. For him, at least. 

Donghyuck unfurls his fingers where he had clenched them into a fist unknowingly.

"It was a silly suggestion, I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable," Taeil says apologetically to Donghyuck, who shakes his head and makes a show of picking what fruit he wants to eat. There are grapes, mangoes, apples, and dragon fruit. He is craving oranges. Sad.

"That's fine. I hadn't considered dating him as a reason."

Mark's fingertips stop toying with the seam of Donghyuck's pants and hesitantly curl away, 

He fiddles with an empty cup to keep his hands busy instead, producing shrill, rotund sounds as he taps against the surface with a nail. His lips are turned down in a frown that doesn't suit him. Donghyuck shrivels. He dislikes the sudden cold on his thigh.

Did Mark...not actually understand Donghyuck's response? 

Oh no.

He backtracks to his words. When he's unable to recall exactly what he said, his throat constricts with fear. Did he say something wrong again. Did he mess up. He messed up, didn't he. Does Mark think Donghyuck has been lying about being attracted to him. He shouldn't. They were close to cuddling less than an hour ago, so he shouldn't but what if. What if. His pulse thuds in his ears once and Donghyuck sucks in a sharp breath, which draws Marks attention. 

Mark's eyes are clouded over, as if he was far away from the breakfast table, and Donghyuck wants to reel him back in like he would a rogue kite.

His tongue is too dry to speak.

The window of opportunity to clarify his words, or just tell Mark they should talk later, vanishes when Mark pushes his chair back.

"Wait a minute, we don't have water, I'll bring some."

When he comes back with a large, yellow box and a jug of warm water, his expression is vacant again, like the times when he is keeping all his running thoughts to the worn race track in his head. 

Donghyuck sighs, defeated.

A gleaming moment lost to the universe is an eternity lost for men like him. 

*

Striking up a conversation with Taeil comes surprisingly easy despite the awkward start. They mostly talk about Neo and what Donghyuck thinks about it compared to Seoul. Mark munches on his fruit loops silently with pouty lips and only comments where necessary. It's as if that short moment of dissonance between them never occurred. Taeil doesn't bring it up again. 

Donghyuck loosens up slowly, finding Taeil is a perfect listener and a very skilled communicator indeed. 

He asks questions, he hands back compliments to the most mundane things ("Oh, you must have captured the city very beautifully.") and he pipes up with stories of his own.

"That's a very famous hook-up spot," Taeil tells Donghyuck about a bar nearby, "you never find couples there in the evening. Very lucky for single people like me."

It's surprising to learn he's single. Donghyuck figured he wouldn't be, for some reason.

"But it's also dangerous to walk around that area after midnight," Taeil continues. 

"Crime?"

"Yeah, the crime rates have been increasing recently."

"I think it has to do with the elections," Mark chimes in, "draws attention."

The elections. Donghyuck bites his lower lip and clenches his fingers into a fist. He still hasn't told Mark about his meeting with Mayor Jeong. Part of him doesn't want to. Then again, he also hasn't told Mark about what he photographed that night. Should he tell him? Will he regret it? When will be a good time to bring it up?

"I think so too." Taeil says, "I called you down for a reason. How much do you guys know about organ trafficking?"

Mark starts coughing.

Donghyuck, startled, reaches out to help him but luckily he isn't choking. It's just a normal cough. He wants to smack the back of Mark's head for worrying them like that. 

"Sorry," he rasps, reaching out for a jug of water.

It's at that moment, that a door -- Donghyuck has lost count of how many doors there are -- opens and someone walks in. 

"Long time, no see," the newcomer announces with a sharp smile.

  
  


昔

  
  


Donghyuck is surprised when a stranger offers to share his umbrella.

"You're going to get drenched," the man says, his voice smooth and fitting his handsome face. He extends his hand. When Donghyuck shakes it, he steps closer to shield Donghyuck from the drizzle.

"Thank you..." he whispers, cold seeping through the damp fabric of his hoodie. The neon orange has turned a dark muddy colour on his sleeves and he folds them up as far as he can. He tries not to meet the stranger's eyes -- they have an eerie, all-knowing sheen to them.

"Where are you headed?" The man asks, producing a pack of cigarettes from a pocket. He tilts it to offer but Donghyuck refuses. The man thinks better of it and pockets the pack again.

"Zone street," Donghyuck says, rubbing his palms on his thin wrists.

"Did you walk all the way here? Or do you have a vehicle...?"

"I walked."

"I see."

The rain worsens then, to break the silence with brutal hammering against the canopy of the man's umbrella. Donghyuck shuffles closer to him, afraid of the water splashing into puddles and against his socks. He smells a whiff of alcohol. Probably a figment of his imagination. 

The man hums, and tugs at his shoulder with a gentle hand: "This way."

They walk through winding roads, past shattered windows and boarded doors. Donghyuck introduces himself, in a moment of vulnerability unique to those who have found themselves lost in a new city without anyone to reach out to, and the man introduces himself as a local bartender. That explains the scent of alcohol -- it was real -- but his coat and shoes are much more pristine compared to all the other people Donghyuck has seen on the streets so far. 

How much do bartenders earn? He should train to become one as well and leave his old life behind.

"You live on Zone street then?" 

"Huh?" Donghyuck hesitates, pulls a lie from the depths of his throat, then burns it in favour of the truth, "In a hotel. I came from Seoul."

"Seoul?" the bartender says, startled, "Wow. So what brings you here? Work?"

"Sorta. I'm doing something for my friend." He points to the camera slung around his neck; the bartender's eyes fall to the lens and they glimmer with eagerness. "I'm a photographer and he's getting married."

"Oh, congratulations to your friend. So he's a Neo citizen?"

"Yeah."

"You know, you shouldn't wander outside after dark without a local. Especially these blocks." the bartender warns in a friendly tone. 

Donghyuck smiles, abashed.

"I'll take note of that," he says, forcing out a laugh to cover his nervousness.

They turn a sharp bend and Donghyuck hears a loud honk. They're close to the main road. He sighs in relief and straightens his back, careful not to bump shoulders with his kind benefactor. The rain slows down to a trickle through the cracks in heaven and let's up just as fast as it came. The weather is a mystery to all but nature, and Donghyuck has no intentions to interfere with or curse it. The rain comes when it comes. It leaves when it has to leave.

"This is it. A simple path. You just follow all the doors with single light bulbs above them. And the last building is painted, whatever this colour is." the bartender explains, even though Donghyuck doesn't need to know. 

"That's neat."

"It is, because it's meant to lead people to their destinations."

Destinations. Whatever could there be in an area as desolate as this? The walls are bare; the asphalt is chipped; all people hide behind worn doors; those with no shelter run to the main street, like him; and men like the bartender with expensive leather shoes walk with lowered shoulders through water. It's as suspicious as it can get. Is the bartender really even a bartender? He could be a smuggler for all Donghyuck knows. He should feel dear but he doesn't when the bartender smiles as warmly as the hug of a knit sweater in winter.

"I guess this is it, stay safe and don't get lost again."

"I won't, thanks a ton."

"Go straight and go right, then you'll see signs to Zone street," the bartender instructs in a playful voice.

"Thanks again."

"Don't mention it. But you know what, I'll give you a tip. If you're going to photograph anything other than the wedding and want something interesting, it'll be a good decision to hang around here. Maybe if you come here later, you'll see something worth coming to Neo."

He waves a goodbye and walks away, his figure soon disappearing into the throngs of pedestrians with wet umbrellas.

Donghyuck should buy an umbrella. 

He'll have dinner and come back here, then he'll head to a convenience store. Belatedly, he realises he never asked where the man works, or what his name was. Perhaps, they will cross paths again someday.

*

It is night. Donghyuck does photograph something interesting. He captures a pink haired man committing murder, and then he meets Mark Lee. 

Coming to Neo wasn't just worth it -- it changed the course of Donghyuck's otherwise bleak life.

  
  


*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mini-disclaimer:
> 
> none of these characters are pure, perfect human beings. whether it is chronically depressed mark, severely anxious hyuck, or even physically disabled taeil. I have separate feelings regarding everything in this fic and I would never agree with many things that have happened so far irl.
> 
> this is fiction, and I never signed up to serve perfect characters or give only positive life lessons through this. if I had wanted to make this a fairytale with moral learnings, I wouldn't have tagged this the way I have and jaemin wouldn't go around doing what he does.
> 
> other than that! 
> 
> that one piece of info about hanasaku's step-son who went out with jaemin is not important to downtown donghyuck, but it is to the next fic I'm writing. 
> 
> the first chapter will be up later this month (or early march) and I will update that alongside, slowly. it's a past fic set in this timeline dealing with their last year of high school, so if you're attached to Jaemin, Mark and would like to know Renjun better, then you might enjoy it. I hope you keep an eye out for that! (and the easiest thing for that would be to subscribe to downtown donghyuck :D I'll link that fic in the notes whenever I post).

**Author's Note:**

> lower your shoulders and unclench your jaw:
> 
> [Keep check of your Mental Health ](https://checkpoint.carrd.co/#)  
> [ChilledCow Lo-Fi](https://youtu.be/DWcJFNfaw9c)  
> [Spotify Soft Jazz](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2W2lgPsVQFsPIP8dZ5R3a4?si=ogqGDaIDQfW74ID2rMhnMw)  
> you know what to do to take care of your health <3  
> \---  
> [ Keep in check with the pandemic ](https://www.who.int/emergencies/diseases/novel-coronavirus-2019)


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